


romantic for the sake of my demise (what about you?)

by DFP



Series: call it what you want [1]
Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, I cannot overstate how much this is not a slowburn, Idiots in Love, M/M, extremely heart-horny, getting together / getting it together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DFP/pseuds/DFP
Summary: "What's the saying? An eye for an eye?"“Something like that,” Shuuichi cups Seiji’s jaw, thumb landing just below the crisp line of his eyepatch. “Would you like me to make it up to you?”
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Series: call it what you want [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120667
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought I'd never be able to forgive you,"
> 
> "For what?"
> 
> "Any of it. All of it."

It happens like this:

Shuuichi peeks under the table at an exorcist meeting and finds Seiji curled up beneath, poised to take a giant bite out of a cake. His hair mussed, his dark eyes sharp, his mouth curled into a half-smile, arrogant and unconcerned.

Shuuichi thinks, _Oh no_.

It ends like this:

Shuuichi moves away to launch his idol career and doesn’t tell Seiji he’s leaving. He’s just a kid, too used to lying and hiding and has no idea how to be honest, especially with someone he barely trusts not to use his honesty against him.

When they pass coincidentally in the city Seiji’s gaze slides over him like he doesn’t exist.

It happens like this:

Seiji nearly loses his eye and Shuuichi is pulled back to his side as if a black hole has opened up in the scar tissue. Seiji looks dramatically different with the eyepatch. It shifts the balance of his face, brings out the sharp edge of his cheekbones. He looks stranger, and yet, more himself, somehow.

Seiji slaps him and Shuuichi chokes out, _“Do it again,”_ and they fuck in the sickbed, blood spotting the crisp whiteness of his bandages.

It ends like this:

Seiji shoves him out of bed, cum still cooling on his stomach, and says, “I trust you can show yourself out.”

It happens like this:

“Have you ever thought about retiring?” Shuuichi asks. Seiji tips his head towards him, single eye dark and fathomless. And Seiji, a man who has never told him a lie, says,

“No.”

They spend the summer in each other’s orbit, spun out across long, humid days at the Matoba summer house, picking their way carefully around every topic of conversation that feels like a fight waiting to happen.

Things are intense, but mostly chaste. Shuuichi has the unnerving sense that if he were to get his hands on Seiji, he’d lose control of himself. He tells Seiji as much, the closest to a confession he’s ever made;

“Sometimes I don’t know if I want to hit you or kiss you.”

He doesn’t understand why the feeling that blooms, hot, in his chest feels like violence—he doesn’t understand why making Seiji smile or making him cry feels like the same thing. He doesn’t understand why any act of kindness seems to sting like a slap.

Seiji shrugs, unfazed, “Such is the way of these things,”

It ends like this:

“I don’t want this!” Shuuichi says, furiously. Seiji looks at him coolly,

“Do you think that matters to me?” He replies. Shuuichi grips him at the bend of his arms, clenches hard until he can spy the faintest wince in Seiji’s expression. He can feel himself coming unspooled. Natsume's voice is in his head, telling him _you're kind_ , like a command even when it's meant to be a compliment.

The things that are important to him and the things that are important to Seiji are so laughably incompatible. But he wants him, anyway, his desire a wound bleeding out between his ribs.

He drags Seiji in and kisses him fiercely, meanly. The taste of his tongue in his mouth is like a knife to his throat.

“Then take it,” he spits, “All of it. I have no use for it,”

It happens like this:

"I heard about Nanase-san," Shuuichi says and Seiji lets himself be held, for a moment.

It always ends the same. And Shuuichi wonders if he’s doomed to make the same mistake, over and over.

But he dates, a little, though it never works out. Somehow the women are all too nice, too considerate, and the one man he goes out with is a fellow idol and it turns out that while one idol is bad, two is absolutely unbearable. The relationships never really seem to get off the ground. One woman tells him he kisses like a corpse. Another tells him she’s not particularly interested in playing second fiddle to an ex. Shuuichi has enough sense to break it off with the idol before one of them strangles the other.

He gets papped out at dinner with an actress and the next day Seiji calls to say, “I’d rather see you dead than with someone else. What do you think that means?”

Shuuichi’s mouth dries out, his heart leaps up his throat. He stares, unseeing, at the white wall and says, “I think it means I should stay single,”

Seiji hums, crackly in his ear. “Oh? Is that it? Thanks for clearing that up,”

Shuuichi stops trying to date after that.

And maybe it is just that some people are built for unhappiness. Maybe it’s his karma for a past life, or a lifetime of lies, to long for something he can never have.

Shuuichi chokes down the bright feeling in his chest and stays away.

It happens like this:

Shuuichi is roaming the permanently-bright aisles of 7-Eleven, when his life comes crumbling down around him.

-

Shuuichi shuffles through the convenience store, blinking past the too-bright fluorescents, scanning the fridges for a particular drink he’d snagged at a crafts table the month before. Something orange, he thinks, with purple font on the can. He doesn’t have much going on at the moment, clearly, and with sleep out of reach that particular citrus burn appeals an outsized amount.

It says a lot about Shuuichi’s life that his search for this illusive beverage has become something like a hobby for him.

The truth is, he’s getting old for the business. He’ll turn twenty-nine in November and hasn’t established his public persona enough to really find a foothold anywhere. His management tells him they’re going to pivot to acting full-time but work doesn’t materialize like they say it will. Thirty hangs over him like an axe.

He spies what looks like a promisingly orange can in a fridge but is disappointed when he pulls it out to reveal the flavour is written in spiky green font and describes the taste as “Pomelo”. He takes it anyway, the can soothingly cold in his grip.

In the morning he has a meeting with his agent, which he anticipates with a resigned dread. His publicist is permanently annoyed at him for turning down every publicity date she sets up. Last week his stylist accused him of being boring to dress. He’s not sure he can take ire from one more person in his team.

He turns down an aisle, resigned to continuing his soda search another day, when he stops dead, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He had thought that when his life fell apart there’d be at least some fanfare, some apocalyptic warnings to heed.

He didn’t think the end would come in a 7-Eleven, running into Matoba Seiji in the snack aisle.

He looks bizarre. In an adidas sweatshirt and track pants, eyepatch slicing neatly across his face. His hair has maybe never been cut and flows in a neat tail down to his waist. He’s peering at the sweets, his face angled oddly so the right side of his face is turned away, to look mostly through his unobstructed left eye. Like some kind of horribly oversized raven, or a displaced time traveller.

Shuuichi’s heart twists even as a warm feeling softens his mouth into something that feels almost like a smile.

He can’t remember the last time they saw each other—in passing at an exorcist meeting? Antagonizing one another, Natsume caught between?—but a feeling almost like relief unfolds within his breast. He knew they would meet again and now here they are. Dread ebbs away, replaced with a familiar tightness at the base of his throat.

Because Shuuichi is a vain man, he takes stock of his own appearance—jeans, a white t-shirt—and runs a nervous hand through his hair before taking a step closer. His ribs constrict tightly around his panicky heart. He takes another step.

“I wouldn’t expect to see you here, Matoba,” Shuuichi says, stopping an arm’s length away. Seiji turns to him, his eye narrowed, but his expression clears when their gazes meet.

“Is it so strange?” Seiji replies, his fingers tapping on the packaging almost restlessly.

“Don’t you have servants for this kind of thing?”

Seiji hums noncommittally, turning back to the shelves. “No one I’d trust with such an important task,” he jokes, dryly. Shuuichi watches him scan the rows of sweets, dragging his long fingers across the packaging as if feeling for something.

Things are so colossally shit for Shuuichi right now that Seiji’s unlikely materialization cannot make anything worse. There’s a strange sort of freedom to the kind of creeping hollowness inside Shuuichi’s life, a reckless little voice in his head asking him, _What’s the worst that could happen?_

_This is what you were missing anyway._

“Care to join me?” Shuuichi asks, lifting his drink in hand. Seiji’s expression shifts into unknown territory then settles into a kind of cautious interest.

“At this hour?” Seiji returns, wryly. It is late, nearly midnight, but in the surreal, fluorescent lit space of 7-Eleven it doesn’t feel like any time in particular. In fact, it feels like the perfect time to watch Seiji eat his carefully selected snacks.

Shuuichi shrugs with one shoulder and doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches out thin between them. Seiji stares at him, assessing, the harsh lighting drawing out the nearly black smear of exhaustion under his eye, highlights the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His sweater looks old, a little stretched out around the collar, revealing a slice of pale skin pulled taut over his collarbone.

Seiji’s mouth tucks up into a smile that tears like a knife through Shuuichi’s chest, “Alright,”

There’s a small playground nearby where they settle into a picnic bench, Shuuichi on one side, Seiji the other, Seiji’s pile of snacks between them. Seiji pries open a small bag, extracts a tiny cookie and pops it into his mouth, chews with no particular expression. Then he opens a small cardboard box and nibbles on the chocolate inside, goes so far as to have a second piece, before moving on to a bag of sweets. He plucks out several pieces, examining their shape or colour or some value Shuuichi cannot fathom before eventually sucking on a red candy.

Seiji eats his snacks like a monster. Shuuichi watches him, entranced. There’s something almost-familiar about this moment, though they’ve never been here before.

“So what was the famous Natori Shuuichi doing in a convenience store at this hour?” Seiji asks, idly turning a candy over in his fingers. Shuuichi shrugs,

“It’s close to my apartment,” he says, cracking open his drink, “What’re you doing in the city?”

“Hmm? I wonder,” Seiji says, smiling blandly. Shuuichi resists the urge to scowl, but only barely.

“Just had a craving?” He suggests, gesturing to the pile of snacks. Seiji blinks down at the candy in his hand, then turns his sharp eye on Shuuichi.

“I suppose you could say that,” he says, a wicked edge inching into his smile. He pops the candy into his mouth, biting down with a loud crack.

It strikes Shuuichi that he’s reminded of a Seiji from long ago, tucked under a table at an exorcist meeting to sneak treats. That boy still exists in Seiji—that boy still _is_ Seiji, just older and colder.

Shuuichi’s chest fills up tight. He’s so fucked.

A faint breeze stirs the humid air around them, shifts Seiji’s hair enticingly against his pale cheek. He looks the same, he looks different. His hair longer than ever, faint wrinkles in the corner of his eye, the same crisp eyepatch slicing diagonally across his face.

Seiji is sixteen, loquat juice down his chin, smiling and trying not to. Seiji is twenty, the ruined crater of his eye muffled by gauze. Seiji is twenty-two, his gaze a lazy caress down Shuuichi's face, his body just out of reach. Seiji is twenty-five, his grief heavy enough to hold. Seiji is a voice on the phoneline, a weight at the back of his mind.

Seiji is right in front of him.

They sit in companionable silence, Shuuichi watching Seiji pick away at his snacks with barely disguised fascination, Seiji pretending he doesn’t notice. He sips his drink and tries to focus on the Seiji that’s here, in front of him, not all the versions of him that crowd his memories.

It’s been years. Surely they’ve changed in that time, at least a little.

At some cue unknown to Shuuichi, Seiji gathers up his half-eaten snacks and stands. He looks like some bizarre fusion of child and man; feather-light crow's feet around his eye, his sweater too-large, his frown cold and calculating, the snacks cradled in his arms. Shuuichi stands, his pulse pounding in his empty hands.

Seiji walks around the table and pauses a moment before stepping in close to Shuuichi, too close. Shuuichi stares at him, his brain white noise, his chest tight. He never forgot how unnerving it was to be of equal height, the way Seiji’s gaze meets his so exactly.

“I’m…” Seiji pauses, cocks his head, his gaze cool and assessing, “It’s good to see you’re well,”

“It’s been awhile,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s chin dips in a small nod.

“Yes,” he says, “It has,”

They stare each other down, the air thick between them, filled with everything better left unsaid. Shuuichi’s gaze drops to Seiji’s mouth, a smear of chocolate below his lip. It’s been years, it feels like it’s been even longer, yet somehow the distance is easy enough to close.

Shuuichi leans in, hesitates a moment as Seiji’s dark eye focuses on his face, then touches his lips to Seiji’s in a glancing kiss.

Seiji’s reaction is immediate. The snacks cascade out of his hands to crash softly to the ground, his one hand clenching in Shuuichi’s shirt, the other gripping the back of his neck, pressing them firmly together. He kisses Shuuichi hungrily, sloppily, moving his lips against his, teeth nibbling at his lip. Shuuichi gasps, fireworks launching in his chest, and Seiji immediately, unhesitatingly, thrusts his tongue inside his mouth.

Shuuichi can barely keep up—his hands land on Seiji’s waist, shaking badly, as Seiji licks into him, his tongue hot and wet and oh so good against his own. A rumbling moan breaks loose of Shuuichi’s chest and Seiji makes a soft, fervent sound in reply, his hand tightening in Shuuichi’s hair, his tongue pressing more insistently into him, as if to crawl inside.

Seiji tastes like chocolate and sugar, his body warm and hard pressed against him, his hands gripping with a possessiveness that sets Shuuichi’s blood to boil. He threads one hand in Seiji’s hair and can’t help the groan he presses into Seiji’s mouth when he finds his long hair as silky as he remembers it.

Seiji breaks away, just far enough his eye comes back into focus, his cheeks flushed pink, his lips glossy with spit. “Pull,”

“What?” Shuuichi asks, all his blood having fled south of his brain, leaving him stupid and confused. Seiji shifts his head, his hair sliding through Shuuichi’s fingers.

“Pull my hair,” he says, flushed down to the neckline of his sweater. Shuuichi gets so hard so fast he thinks he’s in danger of passing out.

He does as he’s told, gripping the soft strands and yanking, hard. Seiji’s head snaps back and a soft, breathy gasp escapes his open mouth. Shuuichi stares at the long, pale column of his throat and then suddenly he’s sucking at the skin over Seiji’s pulse, no memory of making the decision. Up close Seiji smells of fresh, crisp soap and below that, a muskiness that drills down into Shuuichi’s core, where heat pools at the base of his spine. He licks and sucks at the soft skin of Seiji’s throat, continuing to pull at his hair, while Seiji pants raggedly in his ear.

He pulls back slowly, his heart pounding in his ears, his hands shaking. Seiji’s head is still tipped back by the pull of Shuuichi’s fingers, his lips parted around his breath, a flush bleeding down his throat, a red bruise under the knife’s edge of his jaw. His eye cracks open a sliver, his gaze dark and heated. Shuuichi reels him back in and licks into his mouth.

Shuuichi’s body lights up everywhere they touch—their stomachs pressed together, the trailing touch of Seiji’s hand down his back, the warm heat of his mouth. Seiji kisses him messily, mindlessly, almost angrily, like he’s trying to prove something. They break apart to pant for air, Seiji flushed and beautiful. Shuuichi slides his hand out of Seiji's hair to cup one warm cheek. He feels a swooping in his gut, like he’s missed a step on the stair.

“You’re so...” Shuuichi’s voice comes out hoarse. Seiji blinks, his glassy eye focusing on Shuuichi. He cocks his brow at him, an oddly lopsided expression with half his face concealed. The mark Shuuichi sucked into his throat stands out glaringly. His hair cascades down his chest, messy from Shuuichi’s touch, his eyepatch rumpled, revealing a slice of pale skin beneath. Shuuichi strokes Seiji’s cheek with a swipe of his thumb, and Seiji cocks his head curiously, leaning his face into the touch incidentally.

“My ride should be here,” he says, abruptly, in a falsely breezy tone, “This was very interesting. I look forward to our next meeting, Shuuichi-san,”

“What?” The word falls, incredulously, from his numb lips. A corner of Seiji’s mouth twitches up into a smirk, his dark eye lidded before he steps back and makes for the road. Shuuichi stands, stunned, for a moment, one hand still partially raised where it was pressed to Seiji’s face, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

He watches Seiji slip into a car parked outside the 7-Eleven, his hair a tangled mess. His pile of snacks is where he dropped them, scuttling in the breeze around Shuuichi’s feet.

Shuuichi has the distinct sense that the rug has just been pulled out from under him.

-

He doesn’t really sleep at all that night, instead he stares up at his ceiling and replays, again and again, the soft tenor of Seiji’s voice, the hungry grasp of his hands, the soft velvet of his mouth.

Shuuichi has always prided himself on being very aware of his own flaws. And he has, up to this point, considered his enduring obsession with Seiji to be a flaw. But Seiji kissed him like a starving man tearing into a feast. Like he, too, had laid awake at night aching.

The very idea that Seiji could desire him in return is enough to make Shuuichi reconsider.

“We should focus in,” his agent says, tapping her pen against the file folder in front of her. It’s got a detailed copy of his CV, several press releases and a few photos from his biggest hits. Her office is, as always, meticulously tidy, piles of contracts, glossy headshots, a notepad, line the desk between them like an arsenal.

“Focus in?” Shuuichi echoes. His fingers drum on his thighs restlessly. The lizard runs slow laps of his shoulder. He’s extremely focused on the memory of Seiji’s tongue in his mouth.

“Yeah. Let’s start here—why acting?”

Shuuichi stares at her. Manami has been his agent for nearly his entire career. He likes her, he relies on her, certainly, but he’s never quite understood her.

“Because I’m good at it,” he answers, eventually. Manami nods,

“Yes, of course. But do you enjoy it? What motivates you?”

Shuuichi stares at her for a long moment, at the faint crows’ feet encircling her eyes, at the tidy wave of her fringe. “It’s my job.”

She squints at him. “Right. Well, what do you want out of it? I never thought I’d have to say this but—you are allowed to want things, Shuuichi,”

She says it with such gentle fondness Shuuichi feels his whole body tense up.

“Just not things that make your job harder, right?” He jokes. She snorts.

“At this point I’d almost relish the challenge,” she shuffles some papers, “Just think about it. In the meantime, here’s what we’ve got booked for the coming year…”

Some public appearances, an ad campaign, a rom-com shoot, a few interviews scheduled around the airing of a TV drama in the summer. It’s a quiet year, but his agent doesn’t seem particularly worried.

“We’re restructuring your brand a little,” she reminds him, “It’ll take some time to sort out where we go from here. I’ve got projects here for you to look at, some in your wheelhouse and some not. Pick a couple roles that seem appealing, you can afford a little risk,”

Shuuichi takes the packet with a smile. “Thank you for all your hard work, Minami,”

She smiles wryly at him, pen tapping away at her notepad. “My advice is to take some time for yourself. Thirty isn’t the end of the world, you know,”

“Of course. Thank you.”

If thirty isn’t the end of the world, then why does everyone keep assuming he thinks it is?

-

Shuuichi stops by the 7-Eleven several more times—it _is_ close to his home, after all—both hoping and fearing that Seiji will be there. He idles in the aisles, picks over the colourful snacks, browses every kind of cable imaginable, loiters by the slushie machine.

After a few long, pathetic weeks of this, Shuuichi returns home to find an amorphous shadow plastered to the outside of his living room window. Shuuichi eyes the shiki warily, but it can only offer an empty-eyed stare in return. He crosses the living room, the lizard crawling up onto his cheek as if to watch, and unlatches the window, slides it open a crack so the shiki can slither one arm through the gap.

In its hand is a folded up piece of ruled paper. Shuuichi takes it and flicks it open to read _Meet me Tuesday, 8pm_ , an address in the city underneath. Shuuichi looks back up at the shiki, still wedged into the bare inch of space allowed, staring at him with unblinking white eyes.

“Alright,” Shuuichi says. The shiki stares. “Tell Matoba yes,”

The shiki nods and retracts its arm, glides down the glass out of sight. Shuuichi stares at the note. Seiji has excellent handwriting. He has to force himself to throw the paper away, instead of holding onto it like some lovesick widow.

On Tuesday Shuuichi dresses falsely casual, in a cashmere sweater, slacks, and a peacoat that all told cost more than ¥700,000. He’s so insufferable he kind of hates himself for it. On the train he sinks into a pit of nerves, bouncing one knee, his hands shaking.

Part of it is the same old dread, the weary certainty that all his desire will blow up in his face. But part of it is something like excitement. It takes several strikes to light a spark, after all.

When Shuuichi arrives at the address he comes to an abrupt halt outside the building as a waft of savoury smells roll up against his face. It’s a ramen bar. Seiji wants to meet at a ramen bar?

Tense all over with confusion and nerves, Shuuichi pushes his way inside. The restaurant is all hardwood, a polished bar top overlooking the chef’s prep counter, cozy booths lit by warm, low-hanging lights, old ad posters tacked up on the walls. It’s sparsely populated—a couple of old men at one end of the bar, a group of friends crammed into one booth, a black haired man sitting alone at the bar, long fingers steepled together in front of him. Shuuichi sits next to him, clears his throat and says, “Hi,”

“You’re late,” Seiji says, immediate and automatic. Shuuichi frowns at him. “I ordered the beef special for you,”

Shuuichi stares, blinking hard. Seiji’s wearing a black hoodie and track pants, clothes that Shuuichi can admit look good on him for all they don’t suit him. Seiji cocks a brow at him, and he feels an answering heat in his face.

“Fine.” He makes himself say.

Seiji turns to face straight ahead. Shuuichi’s seated on his left side, so he can see the sweep of his long lashes as well as the tense line of his mouth. Shuuichi realizes he’s staring and looks away, pours himself a glass of water and tries not to feel like an idiot.

The silence hangs thick between them. What’s he supposed to say? He doesn’t know what they’re doing here and the last time they saw each other they were sucking face outside a 7-Eleven. Shuuichi’s heart pounds in his ears. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Seiji’s are still laced together, pressed to his mouth.

“You didn’t have to come,” Seiji says, stiffly. Shuuichi startles.

“No I—I wanted to,” he says, very lamely. But it seems to satisfy Seiji, who lowers his hands to the bar top and looks straight at him. His expression utterly blank he says,

“Good.”

Their ramen arrives, two large bowls piled high with noodles and meat. The smell washes over Shuuichi and his stomach cramps, hungrily.

“I used to come here often,” Seiji says. Shuuichi cuts his gaze towards him, watches his eye flutter closed as he breathes in the steam.

“With Nanase-san?” Shuuichi asks. Seiji’s eye stays closed; his expression unchanging.

“Yes. And before, with my mother,” his voice is bland, his inflection doesn’t change as he adds, “Thanks for the food,”

“Thanks for the food,” Shuuichi echoes, softly. They eat in silence for a while, slurping noodles and broth. Shuuichi feels nervous in a whole new way, like he’s been handed something fragile and precious, something he’s in danger of breaking.

“This is delicious,” he says, smiling, which is an inane thing to say but true. Seiji looks at him, expression indecipherable, lips shiny with broth. This comment is enough to attract the chef, standing idle during what seems to be an especially slow Tuesday evening.

“You know it’s my grandmother’s broth recipe, unchanged for generations,” she says, leaning forward over the bar.

“Oh?” Shuuichi says, still smiling. Encouraged, the chef begins a cheerful story about her uncle’s life-long feud with a beef farmer. Shuuichi nods and smiles and sweats, afraid to look at Seiji slurping his broth next to him.

The chef’s story winds up to a convoluted punchline about a hot poker, a traveling salesman and a dairy cow, polished to a sheen from repetition. It’s a good story, and Shuuichi is momentarily caught up in it enough to laugh along and ask the necessary follow-up question; “But what did your uncle say?”

“Even a fool has one talent,” she winks and grins, “Now don’t mind me, enjoy the food boys,”

As the chef moves down the bar Shuuichi hesitantly returns his attention to Seiji. He’s looking directly at him, expression flat and bland, visible eye bright. A faint dot of broth has seeped into the bottom edge of his eyepatch. Shuuichi’s eyes catch there, hold.

“You just charm everyone you meet, don’t you,” Seiji says, dryly. Shuuichi drags his gaze up to meet Seiji’s, the droll twist to his mouth, the cold light in his eye.

“Well,” Shuuichi smiles wryly at him, “Not quite _everyone_ ,”

Seiji’s bland expression slips, a faint lift of the corner of his mouth. “Oh? That must be frustrating for you,”

Shuuichi’s stomach swoops low, like he’s jumping off a cliff. “No, not at all,”

Seiji tucks his hair behind his left ear. Shuuichi’s eyes catch on the motion, the gentle sweep of hair, the way his long fingers trail through the strands, the elegant line of his neck revealed. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

His agent’s voice is in his head, telling him _you’re allowed to want things._ A smile tugs at his lips; he’s _very_ sure she didn’t mean this. He takes a deep breath and pulls out a charming smile.

“Is this a date?” He asks, all innocent curiousity.

Seiji’s glare is withering.

“Oh my god,” Shuuichi says, “It is,”

“Does it matter?” Seiji snaps.

“Well, I’d like to know if I have a chance of getting laid,” Shuuichi jokes, weakly.

“I am prepared to slap you at a moment’s notice, if that’s what you mean,” Seiji says, dryly. Shuuichi blushes all the way up to his ears, his whole body flaring hot. Seiji smirks at him.

“Not exactly,” he manages to squeak out. Seiji looks at him consideringly, takes a long, noisy slurp of broth.

“If I told you I had no ulterior motives, would you believe me?” He asks, voice light, breezy.

“Sure,” Shuuichi shrugs, “But I wouldn’t mind if you did,”

Seiji stares at him. Shuuichi tries not to look as if the truth of the statement has struck him as it left his mouth.

He’s missed this, he’s missed Seiji. No one outright challenges him the same way. No one makes his heart thunder, or his hands shake. He feels awake. He feels _here_.

“What an interesting thing to say,” Seiji muses, his expression steadily blank. Shuuichi resists the urge to shrug, again, and instead shovels noodles into his mouth as gracefully as he knows how.

The air outside feels cool and crisp after the humid heat of the bar, washing over Shuuichi’s body. His stomach is warm and full, a faint sleepiness begins to tug at his eyes but something else creeps along the back of his neck, keeps him alert.

There’s a black car parked up at the corner, awaiting Seiji’s return, but they linger on the sidewalk. Shuuichi wants to hang onto this moment, whatever it is. The taste of ramen in his mouth, the dot of broth on Seiji’s eyepatch, the heat of his good eye on Shuuichi’s face.

“Matoba,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s gaze sharpens, focuses in on him. Shuuichi stares back, his words ash in his mouth.

“Look. I—" Seiji cuts himself off with a sigh, flips his bangs out of his face. He looks away from Shuuichi, his jaw working silently. It occurs to Shuuichi that maybe Seiji has fallen so deeply into the habit of hiding his true feelings it’s become near impossible to do otherwise.

He thinks of the hungry way Seiji kissed him in the park. Of the way Seiji’s voice rasped when he said _pull_. He thinks, _Maybe there’s one way to make him honest._

And he thinks to himself, _Well, what’s the harm in one more try?_

“I want to—"

“You are—"

They speak at the same time and cut off, Seiji eyeing him suspiciously, Shuuichi trying not to look suspicious.

“Are you free Thursday evening?” Seiji says, after a short pause. Shuuichi feels a spark catch in his chest.

“Yeah,” Shuuichi touches a hand to Seiji’s elbow, who jumps slightly in response, “Why don’t you come over?”

Seiji looks at him and for an instant his walls are down and Shuuichi can see the very outside edge of a deep, dark feeling. And inside himself he feels an answering call. Shuuichi draws his touch along the line of Seiji’s forearm, circles his finger around the bone of his slim wrist. Seiji jerks suddenly, his hand snapping around Shuuichi’s wrist. His fingers are cool against his thundering pulse, his grip hard enough to hurt.

“Look forward to it,” Seiji says, coolly.

“Can’t wait,” Shuuichi says, his voice dry. Seiji’s gaze is dark and endless.

-

On Thursday Seiji arrives at his apartment with a large bottle of eye-wateringly expensive sake. He’s wearing a black yukata, looking more like the leader of the Matoba clan and less like a member of a high school track team.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he says, perfunctorily, kicking off his footwear and striding into the living room. It’s already late, well past when civilized people eat dinner, so all Shuuichi’s done to prepare is relentlessly tidy the space all day. The lights inside are dim, to better see the constellations of city lights outside the windows.

“Can I get you anything?” Shuuichi asks, by force of habit. Seiji raises the bottle and cocks his brow.

“Cups.”

The sake is dry and smooth, burning a warm path down his throat and bringing a rush of blood to his face. They drink with a sort of morbid determination, staring at each other in the gloom, Shuuichi searching for any topic of conversation that doesn’t taste like a bomb in his mouth.

A few drinks in and Seiji seems to relax, almost despite himself. He wanders the apartment aimlessly, puts on a record, touches his fingers to the windows, silhouetted against the golden city glow.

Shuuichi slumps onto the couch, extends his hand above him, watches the lizard drag itself across his knuckles. He imagines he can hear it, the slow drag of its little feet across his bones, but it’s probably just the slosh of alcohol in his ears. He can’t muster the same degree of disgust towards the mark that he used to. Speaking of disgust…

Shuuichi drops his hand and tips his head over to look at Seiji, a black shadow peering derisively at the bookshelf, snorting over Shuuichi’s general bad taste, probably. The sight of him in Shuuichi’s home makes his skin prickle, his heart clench.

“What was her name?” Seiji asks. Shuuichi blinks his eyes clear. He cannot remember the conversation they were having, probably because Seiji let the threads trail off minutes ago.

“Who?”

Seiji gives him a strange look over one shoulder, sort of a smirk, sort of something else. Something that makes the hair rise on the back of Shuuichi’s neck. “Your terrible high school girlfriend,”

“Who?” Shuuichi repeats, just to watch the crinkle of Seiji’s brow in annoyance. “You mean Hina? She wasn’t my girlfriend,”

“Oh, of course, because you don’t commit, right?” Seiji replies, dryly, running his finger across the spines of a row of books. Shuuichi watches the trail of his long, pale finger and feels a ghost of its’ touch down his own spine.

Shuuichi thinks, but doesn’t say, _I wasn’t dating Hina because I was obsessed with you_.

“I suppose,” Shuuichi murmurs, “You’re my oldest friend. Sad, isn’t it?”

“If I agreed with you, I’d be saying I’m as pathetic as you are,” Seiji replies, dryly. Shuuichi snorts, dropping his head back on the couch.

“God forbid,” he mutters, closing his eyes. In darkness, the world tips dizzily around him. He hears a rustling and then feels the couch dip beside him. He opens his eyes to see Seiji kneeling next to him, staring down into his face.

His black hair falls around his neck, tantalizingly close to touching. The sake has brought blood to his cheeks, a high flush that deepens the darkness of his eyes. His expression is cold, considering. Shuuichi is trapped by it, his heart lurching painfully against his ribs.

“I thought I’d never be able to forgive you,” Seiji says, almost conversationally.

“For what?” Shuuichi’s mouth is dry.

“Any of it. All of it.”

“What changed?” Shuuichi asks, softly. Seiji touches a hand to Shuuichi’s cheek, his fingers cool and calloused from his bow.

“Nothing, as of yet,” he says. For a moment they just look at each other. Seiji draws his fingers up Shuuichi’s face, traces his eye socket delicately. Shuuichi holds his breath.

“What’s the saying? An eye for an eye?” Seiji drags his nails down the soft skin under Shuuichi’s eye. Tears spring forth at the sharp pain, but he holds himself still, doesn’t allow himself to flinch away.

“Something like that,” Shuuichi’s hand moves of its own accord, cups Seiji’s jaw, thumb landing just below the crisp line of his eyepatch. “Would you like me to make it up to you?”

Seiji hums, tipping his head slightly, and drags his hand down Shuuichi’s face, the sensitive skin of his throat, down the long line of his torso. Shuuichi’s body jolts to attention, his skin shivering with electric sparks from Seiji’s touch, even through his clothes.

Abruptly, Seiji stands and moves to the counter where he refills their cups.

“A toast?” He says, turning to face Shuuichi with a strange smile and an out-held cup. Shuuichi hauls himself to his feet and takes the offered drink.

“To what?” He asks, a little hoarse, trying to pretend he’s not turned-on from a single touch. Seiji’s eye glints at him dangerously in the low light.

“Your good health?” He suggests, stepping closer so that their hands brush, so that Shuuichi can feel the heat of his body.

“To your continued success,” Shuuichi says. Seiji holds his cup higher, closer to Shuuichi’s face and makes a low, rough sound that might be a laugh.

“Yes, drink to that,” he says, and presses the lip of his cup to Shuuichi’s lips. His mouth opens automatically and the sake rushes over his tongue, dry and sharp, so fast he nearly chokes as he gulps it down. Seiji watches him, his own lips parted around a flicker of his tongue, as if to taste.

Shuuichi clears his throat and then rasps, “To you,”

Seiji smiles, slow and sharp, “Of course,” he says, and then tilts his chin up and parts his lips, the long line of his throat glowing white in the dim. Shuuichi presses his cup to his lips, tips the alcohol into his mouth as delicately as he can with shaking hands. Seiji’s eye stays trained on him as he swallows, a thin trickle escaping onto his chin.

Shuuichi lowers the cup, moves even closer to Seiji to reach past him and place it on the kitchen island. Seiji watches him closely, the line of sake on his chin glinting. Shuuichi leans his weight on his hand on the countertop, putting their faces close enough the details of Seiji’s expression start to blur. With his free hand he touches a finger to Seiji’s chin, sweeps up the sake and then, hesitating a moment, presses his finger to Seiji’s lips.

Seiji parts his lips readily, sucks the alcohol from Shuuichi’s skin, taking his finger deep and then slowly withdrawing to bite lightly at his fingertip before releasing him. Shuuichi moves his hand to cup Seiji’s jaw, slides his fingers up into his silky black hair, so close their breath mingles, sour, between them.

“Matoba,” Shuuichi murmurs. Seiji tucks his face into Shuuichi’s neck, which does several complicated things to Shuuichi’s physiology.

“Say my name,” he rasps, breath hot against Shuuichi’s throat. Shuuichi ducks his head slightly, so his mouth is next to Seiji’s ear.

“Seiji,” he says, softly, then again; “Seiji,”

Seiji shivers. Something wild breaks loose inside Shuuichi’s chest.

Seiji shoves him backwards, crowds into him until the backs of his knees hit the couch and Shuuichi falls onto his ass. As though he’s not fulfilling several dozen of Shuuichi’s fantasies, Seiji hitches up his yukata and climbs unceremoniously onto Shuuichi’s lap, straddling him and leaning down to capture his mouth. Shuuichi makes an embarrassingly eager sound, licking hungrily into Seiji’s mouth, hands gripping the loose fabric around his hips and pulling him down flush.

Shuuichi runs a hand up to Seiji’s jaw, cradles him at just the right angle to lick deeply into him. The other hand he keeps pressed to his hip, holds him steady and close. Seiji tastes like sake, his body warm and firm against him, his hair falling around them, waves of a gently sweet scent wafting from the strands, blending with the smell of sweat, of alcohol, of the muskiness Shuuichi would only ever associate with Seiji.

Seiji sighs into his mouth, his hands scramble with Shuuichi’s shirt, slicing through the buttons, nails clawing down his bare chest. Tension begins to wind, lazily, at the base of Shuuichi’s spine as heat builds between their bodies. He grinds up into Seiji, releasing a wet gasp for air that he presses to Shuuichi’s throat, just over his pulse.

Desire rises up in Shuuichi, like a dark tide, a need to be closer to Seiji, to pull him in until their bodies blend together, until they’re one and the same. A familiar desire to consume, to own, but softened, now, tamed by the press of Seiji’s hands on his chest, the wet drag of his tongue. _Such is the way of these things_ , Seiji had said, years ago, vague and flippant. Shuuichi remembers it now, as a vicious hunger claws up his throat. Did he feel the same? Does he still?

Shuuichi drags his hand through Seiji’s hair, gently tugging out tangles, and Seiji makes a soft, sweet sound as he pulls back from the kiss, lips swollen red, single eye dark and endless. Does it matter to Shuuichi if he does?

He yanks clumsily at the neckline of Seiji’s yukata, pulling it down his shoulders to reveal his collarbones, the pale skin of his chest, the barest glimpse of a nipple. Shuuichi draws one hand across Seiji’s collarbones, the faint dip of his sternum, feeling soft, heated skin, imagining the taste of sweat on his tongue. Seiji stares down at him, lips parted for his breath. In the dark, the eyepatch throws a heavy shadow across his face, disguising his expression.

Seiji’s arms are restricted somewhat by the way his yukata has been pulled down, not undone. His blush crawls down his throat, down his chest out of sight, his lips parted around his breath. He places his hands on Shuuichi’s chest, digs in with his nails, leaves behind crescent marks. His hair spills out of its tie, black strands tumbling over his shoulders, falling into his glassy eye. He looks like every wet dream Shuuichi’s ever had come to life.

Seiji tips down and finds Shuuichi’s mouth, licks his way inside, one hand coming up to grip his jaw. It’s sloppy and wet, Seiji’s teeth scraping against his lip, his tongue, his breath panting damp against his face as they break apart.

Seiji’s head drops to his shoulder, his breath wheezing out of him. Shuuichi cradles the back of his neck and hums, low, into his ear; “Happy birthday, Seiji,”

They spend the rest of the night half-dressed, finishing off the sake and licking the taste from each other’s mouths. In the morning, when Shuuichi wakes, Seiji is long gone, the only trace of him angry scratches down his face, blooming purple bruises under the thin skin below his eye.

He stares at himself in the mirror, pale and hungover, eyes bloodshot. He asks, for the first time in a long while, _what do you want?_

-

“What do you want?” Shuuichi grumbled. The boy in black at the school gate smiled, slow and false.

“Bold of you to assume you have anything I want,” Seiji replied, dark eyes cutting. Shuuichi’s grip tightened around the strap of his bag as he glowered.

It was an unseasonably cold November day, the sky low and grey, the sharp wind crept between gaps in jackets, slipped down the backs of necks. They were attracting attention—the unlikeable Natori and a stranger, lounging by the gates. Resigned, Shuuichi began to walk and Seiji fell easily into step.

School always put Shuuichi in a shit mood and having to deal with Seiji right afterwards filled his head with a buzzing annoyance. He could feel the tension in his jaw, in his shoulders, and it only made him more annoyed. Shuuichi had spent a lot of time and energy trying to grow a thick skin, to become cold. Seiji, on the other hand, was an ice block all the way through.

He was wearing his school uniform, an inky black to match the hair that hung past his jaw. It only made him seem paler, brought out the blue veins that traced his temples, his thin wrists. He was always smiling falsely, an unnerving faulty mirror of friendliness. But his dark eyes seemed to sparkle with a genuine interest, a crow’s intelligent curiousity.

“Are you going to talk to Iwasaki-san about that bounty?” Seiji asked, lightly, trotting along next to him as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Yes, I was,” Shuuichi replied, stiffly.

“Excellent, we can go together,”

Shuuichi frowned, a faint pain spiking behind one eye. Seiji seemed to have a supernatural awareness of what would rile Shuuichi up. From the sharp edge to his smile and the glint in his eyes, he knew when Shuuichi was about to tip from annoyance into anger. He seemed to relish in it.

Shuuichi forced a deep breath in through his nose. Iwasaki was a dotty old exorcist, prone to wheezing fits and long, rambling stories about her heyday. As much as it would pain Shuuichi to admit it, a two-pronged attack was more likely to keep the old lady on topic.

“ _Fine_.” He snapped, glancing Seiji’s way long enough to catch the hitch to his bland smile. _Asshole_ , he thought, but even in his own mind there was a resigned hollowness to the word.

Iwasaki danced the usual dance, denying that she was willing to get children involved, then allowing them to talk her around, Seiji with his flat smiles, Shuuichi with a stubborn refusal to accept anything else. She told them where the suspected spirit had been spotted, skirting the edges of the nearby forest, and mentioned that it seemed to seek out handsome young men.

“Oh no,” Seiji said, blandly, “Shuuichi-san, maybe you’d better sit this one out,”

Shuuichi bristled, ugly words crowding behind his teeth, but Iwasaki blithely cut through the sudden tension as if she’d not even noticed it.

“You’re such an industrious boy, Matoba-kun, working on your birthday,”

“His _what?_ ” Shuuichi asked, sharply, his rising ire at Seiji misfiring on poor, old Iwasaki. Once again, she seemed oblivious to the shifting mood of the conversation.

“You look out for one another, alright boys?” She smiled warmly at them, and Shuuichi felt a momentary jolt of guilt for raising his voice.

“Yes, we’ll be sure to,” Seiji replied smoothly, smiling a smile that looked more like a grimace, “Thank you for your time, Iwasaki-san,”

As they walked towards the trees, Seiji didn’t once look at Shuuichi. He held himself stiffly, though he was humming quietly under his breath. It was his birthday.

It was his birthday and he had no one to spend it with.

An ugly feeling clawed up Shuuichi’s throat, something vindictive, something petty. He tried to choke it back down, but it put out roots, filled his chest with a cruel pleasure. Part of Shuuichi was disgusted with himself, the part of him that longed to be kind and good and worthwhile, but it was smaller, quieter. 

Which part was the true him? The part that was cruel, rearing up on instinct to kick Seiji while he was down, or the part of him that wanted to hold Seiji’s hand, make everything better? Was he allowed to forgive himself for his own cruelty?

Shuuichi’s hand slipped into his bag and found the crinkly package of chocolate that Sumi had given him as an early birthday treat. He pulled his hand free, curling his fingers into a fist at his side.

Was there any way to be kind without it looking like pity? Was there any balance between his own bitter satisfaction at Seiji’s sour expression and wanting Seiji to laugh?

He grabbed Seiji’s wrist, who startled, spun to face him.

“Yes, Shuuichi?” Seiji said, in that imperial tone of his that never failed to put Shuuichi on edge. He swallowed down the scowl forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Seiji,” he said. Seiji squinted at him, suspicious.

Shuuichi’s hand clenched harder around the delicate bones of Seiji’s wrist. The lizard crawled down from his elbow, settled into the bend between his thumb and forefinger. They both stared at it. Somehow, Shuuichi was a little embarrassed.

Shuuichi yanked him in and either Seiji was drastically unprepared for it or Shuuichi’s embarrassment made him agitated, but Seiji stumbled in close. Too close.

His thick, long eyelashes drew out the dark colour of his eyes, cast shadows across the purplish skin underneath. His cheeks were pink, a little, from the cold. His long, smirking mouth had dropped open into a gentle expression of surprise. Shuuichi could feel his heartbeat in every inch of his body, his skin suddenly too hot, too tight.

With his free hand he hurriedly produced the chocolate from his bag and crammed it into Seiji’s captured hand. Heart pounding for no discernible reason, he released him and stepped back. Seiji wore a flat look of shock, dark eyes darting down to the packet in hand, then up to Shuuichi’s face.

“You like sweets, don’t you?” Shuuichi sounded annoyed to his own ears.

Seiji stared down at the chocolate with an intensely focused, faraway expression as if he were doing complicated math in his head.

“I do,” he said, eventually, slowly and almost begrudgingly. Shuuichi huffed a small grunt and turned away, the issue settled.

On Shuuichi’s birthday he dodged two ill-fated love confessions, got ¥5,000 from his father, and found a strange little charm hung on the front gate. He hesitated only a moment before he took it and fastened it to his bag.

If Seiji noticed, next they met, he didn’t say a word.

-

Ten days later Seiji is on his knees in Shuuichi’s living room, face pressed to Shuuichi’s crotch so he can feel the heat of his breath through his slacks.

“It is your birthday, after all,” Seiji says, smiling slyly, before he pulls down the fly with his teeth. Shuuichi is gasping for breath and Seiji doesn’t even have his hands on him yet.

From the way Seiji bit him when they kissed Shuuichi’s almost nervous as Seiji drags his mouth over his clothed election. _What if he bites me?_ He thinks, then immediately scolds; _Don’t get so excited!_

“Y-you don’t have you,” Shuuichi says, voice dry from how badly he wants it. Seiji looks up at him, unimpressed.

“I think we’re past pleasantries, don’t you?” He says and then pulls Shuuichi’s cock free and slips the head between his lips, sucks indulgently.

Shuuichi’s thought about this, longed for this— _of course_ he has—but nothing in his imaginings has prepared him for the sight of Seiji on his knees, lips stretched around Shuuichi’s cock.

There’s something absolutely unbearable about the way the eyepatch slices cleanly across Seiji’s face, ink dancing across the paper as he bobs his head up and down Shuuichi’s cock. His good eye is mostly closed, eyelashes fluttering as he sucks, hard, cheeks hollowing out. He braces one hand on Shuuichi’s hip, nails digging into the thin skin over the bone.

Heat coils, irrepressibly, in Shuuichi’s navel. Seiji’s soft, warm, tongue sending electric jolts up his spine, his hips quivering, his brain filling up with useless static, his hands shaking terribly even as he threads them into Seiji’s silky black hair.

“Fuck,” Shuuichi gasps, “You’re so good at this,”

Seiji hums, pleased, around him, a bolt of heat shooting down Shuuichi’s spine in response. It’s all he can do to not thrust into the hot, wet feel of Seiji’s mouth, his tongue licking up the underside of his cock as if he loves the taste. He curls his fingers in Seiji’s hair and pulls at the strands, Seiji moans brokenly around him, blushing red.

“Oh, oh you feel so good, Matoba,” Shuuichi babbles, watching Seiji’s cheeks hollow out as he sucks. Seiji, as if spurned on by the words, takes Shuuichi deeper, his cock brushing the back of his throat. Shuuichi hisses, his hips jolting at the feeling, and Seiji chokes, pulls off to cough, his lips smeared with spit and precum. But then he’s back on him in an instant, licking and sucking at the head of his cock, eye closed so the dim light draws shadows out of his long lashes. Shuuichi groans, scratches lightly at a Seiji’s scalp.

“Use—use your teeth,” he stutters out. Seiji’s eyelid flickers, but he doesn’t hesitate before scraping his teeth lightly up the shaft, then letting them catch around his cockhead. The sensation sends a tidal wave of heat crashing through Shuuichi, his whole body lighting up, his thighs trembling.

“Yes, fuck, that’s so good, you—" Shuuichi breaks off into a moan as Seiji takes him deep, swallows thickly around him. He continues to lap at him as he bobs his head, his movements becoming sloppier, allowing his teeth to catch around Shuuichi, who yelps and moans and yanks at Seiji’s hair, which summons a deep, loud moan from him. The pressure in Shuuichi’s navel winds unbearably tight, his hands begin to shake, his body suffused in an electric heat.

“Wait—fuck—I-I’m gonna—ah—I’m close,” Shuuichi wheezes, yanking on Seiji’s hair to pull him off. Seiji releases his cock with a lewd pop, licks the mess from his lips as he glares up at him.

“I want it,” Seiji rasps. Shuuichi stares down at him, bewildered through the thick fog of arousal. Seiji sucks his cock back down, so deep that Shuuichi hits the back of his throat. Seiji swallows around him, humming low, and Shuuichi swears emphatically.

“ _That’s_ —oh my god, oh, oh, shit,” Shuuichi can barely hear himself over the roaring in his own ears. A heavy heat winds tight inside him, his hands trembling where they’re threaded into Seiji’s hair. With one hand, Seiji holds the base of his cock steady, moves against the rhythm of his mouth. He licks and sucks like he’s starving for it, lips stretched so prettily around his girth, humming contentedly, a gentle rumble that sends sparks of heat up Shuuichi’s spine.

“So good, oh fuck, you feel amazing, I’m—I’m—"

More than a decade’s worth of longing, frustration and desire unfurls inside him in a hot rush of pleasure. Shuuichi’s head falls back against the wall, his limited vocabulary flees him, and he lets out a long, embarrassingly loud moan as he comes down Seiji’s throat. Seiji swallows around him, working his cock as Shuuichi begins to hiss and then for a while longer, until he flinches away.

Seiji pulls off him delicately, wipes drool and cum off his chin as his mouth works, gaze focused inwards, as if he’s savouring the taste. His hair is all a mess from Shuuichi’s fingers, falling across his flushed face. Shuuichi clumsily drags Seiji up to his feet, pulls him in flush, tucks his face into the sweaty skin of his neck. The pressure inside him releases into a sleepy satisfaction that turns all his limbs to rubber.

“Let me...” Shuuichi slurs, winding one arm around Seiji’s waist to hold him close. The heat of their bodies together blurs with the fuzzy post-orgasm warmth and Shuuichi can hardly tell where he ends and Seiji begins.

“It’s—" Seiji begins to say, trying to pull away but only giving Shuuichi enough space to feel his way down Seiji’s stomach, slip his hand down his track pants.

Shuuichi pulls his face out of Seiji’s neck and blinks at him, “You’re...”

Shuuichi’s hand wraps loosely around Seiji’s half-hard cock, soaked with the proof of his own orgasm. Seiji glares at him, still pink from exertion, his lips swollen and slick with spit and cum.

“You already…?” Shuuichi trails off, dazed. Seiji shoves his shoulder but, even sleepy and loose-limbed, Shuuichi manages to keep his hold around Seiji’s waist. He glares at him sullenly, flushed red. Shuuichi stares at his swollen mouth and wheezes, “That’s—oh my god, you just—?”

He shoves Seiji’s track pants further down one-handed and walks him backwards towards the couch. They stumble together, both their pants caught around their thighs, Seiji squeaking indignantly as Shuuichi manhandles him onto the couch.

Even through the clumsy haze of his orgasm, Shuuichi’s body feels too hot, his heart squeezed up into his throat, thudding painfully. It’s a familiar feeling but, for once, he’s very clear-minded. He isn’t afraid of what he’ll do, if his body will betray him. He has focus.

He’s going to make Seiji come, again.

Shuuichi tumbles down to his knees between Seiji’s legs and begins to sloppily, thoroughly, lick Seiji’s cock clean. Seiji whines, high and desperate, his fingers tangling in Shuuichi hair and scratching at his scalp.

“Too sensitive?” Shuuichi breathes against his cock. Seiji’s hips twitch up.

“ _Nnh_ , keep—keep going,” Seiji gasps, pushing his head down into his crotch. Shuuichi smiles as he laps up Seiji’s cock, swirls his tongue around the head and sucks, lightly. Seiji keens, his hips jolt towards and away from his touch. Shuuichi’s exhausted body lights up, though it’s a struggle to piece together the coordination to peel Seiji’s pants further down while licking up the bitter spend on Seiji’s cock. 

“Ah, ah, oh fuck,” Seiji gasps and Shuuichi moans as heat shoots through his navel. Seiji hisses and fucks up into Shuuichi’s mouth, who obligingly takes his cock in, sucks at him hungrily. Seiji whimpers as his cock hardens in Shuuichi’s mouth.

Shuuichi takes pity on him, releasing his cock and licking down to his balls instead, sucking at the delicate skin there. Seiji gasps, one hand leaves Shuuichi’s hair and he glances up, catches him biting down on the meat of his palm. Shuuichi reaches up clumsily and yanks Seiji’s hand away from his face.

“I wanna hear you,” Shuuichi slurs against his thigh, looking up into that dark eye, “Wanna hear those pretty sounds, okay?”

Seiji flushes red all down his throat. His gaze steady on Shuuichi, despite everything, he mutters, “Greedy,”

Grinning, Shuuichi moves on to dragging open-mouthed kisses to his inner thighs, breathing in deep the rich, sweaty smell of him. He’ll take whatever Seiji’s willing to give, and maybe a little more. He licks at the seam of Seiji’s thigh and Seiji sighs, shivering. A dark greed unfurls inside Shuuichi’s chest. Love or hatred, kiss or hit. He isn’t afraid of it anymore.

“Doing okay?” He asks, lightly. Seiji just stares at him, panting. An eager, sloppy hunger blooms in Shuuichi’s chest. “Tell me if you need a break, or wanna stop,” Shuuichi adds, then bites down, hard, at the join of Seiji’s thigh.

“ _Ah!_ ” Seiji wiggles, as if unsure if he wants to pull away or push closer, his fingers clenching in Shuuichi’s hair, sending bolts of pain-pleasure down his spine. Shuuichi pulls back to review his work, a purpling bruise stark against flushed skin. He touches a finger to it, then, with careful attention to Seiji’s face, presses down hard.

Seiji’s hips leap up, his head dropping back as he gasps for breath. Shuuichi feels it like a blow to his stomach. Fuck but he’s _fantastic_ , he’s so unbelievably hot.

Shuuichi yanks off the track pants completely then drags Seiji to the very edge of the couch, grips his thighs and spreads his legs up and apart. His cock curves up his stomach, pink and shiny with spit, a tantalizing bead of precum at the tip.

“You have,” Shuuichi says, his tongue clumsy in his mouth, “A very pretty dick,”

Because of his grip on Seiji’s thighs, he feels the flex of muscle as Seiji automatically tries to close his legs. Shuuichi grins up at him, scowling and red-faced, and digs his fingers into the soft flesh.

Pretty or not, Shuuichi ignores his cock for now, laying open-mouthed kisses to the inside of his thighs, sucking at the soft skin and reveling in the way Seiji jolts and pants. He grips Seiji’s ass, kneading the flesh a moment before spreading his cheeks and licking a hot line down from his balls. Seiji shudders violently, a thin whine escaping him, his hands tightening suddenly in Shuuichi’s hair. He presses his tongue to the tight ring of Seiji’s entrance, whose thighs tremble around him.

Shuuichi laps at the puckered skin for a few moments, giving Seiji time to protest but when all he gets in response is increasingly whiney gasps, he licks his way inside. Seiji’s whole body trembles in tune with the flutter of the ring of muscle. With sloppy determination, Shuuichi works him open on his tongue, Seiji gasping and squirming, his fingers clenched so tight into his blond hair he must tear some strands out.

The last time—their first time—had been sloppy and rushed, fuelled by a heady blend of worry and anger and lust. They’d barely gotten undressed, it was over nearly before it’d begun. If Shuuichi had learned, then, the kinds of noises Seiji could make, had seen the thrash of his body with Shuuichi’s tongue inside him, he’d never have left.

“Shuuichi! I-I—" Seiji whines, his hips jolting urgently. Shuuichi smothers his moan against Seiji who shudders in response. He leans his head against one of Seiji’s trembling thighs and fumbles his wallet out of his pant pocket.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” Shuuichi says, looking up at the flushed, sweaty mess that Seiji has become. That Shuuichi has made him. _Fuck_. “You always like this? So desperate for it?”

A muscle throbs in Seiji’s jaw as he clenches his teeth, but he can’t swallow a breathy moan. Shuuichi blindly pulls a packet of lube from his wallet and tears it open, cool fluid pouring over his hands. He licks messily at Seiji’s cock, the salty taste of precum bright in his mouth, his own cock throbbing with increasing urgency. Shuuichi presses one lube-soaked finger to Seiji’s entrance, sloppy with spit, and Seiji’s whole body jumps.

“Tell me,” Shuuichi can barely recognize his own voice, “You always so easy? Or just for me?”

Seiji presses a hand to his eyes, his chest leaping with his breath. “Which answer do you prefer?” He asks, his voice thin.

Shuuichi hums in mock-consideration, working his finger into Seiji, who fucks down onto his hand and, loosened from Shuuichi’s tongue, immediately slips down to the knuckle.

“ _Fuck!_ You, just for you, oh fuck,” Seiji says, breathless and whiney.

“Fuck,” Shuuichi says, low and emphatically. His dick throbs desperately. “Just for one finger? You want it so bad,”

“Shut up,” Seiji hisses, expression still partially hidden under one hand.

“Imagine how messy you’d be with my dick in you,” Shuuichi continues, working his finger slowly, “You’re so tight though, might not fit,”

Seiji whines, rocking down onto his hand. Shuuichi stretches him slowly, revelling in the heat of his body, tight around him. He wouldn’t last one minute in him.

He begins to add a second finger, leaning in to lick at Seiji’s balls and cock as he does. Seiji’s hips shift restlessly, fucking down onto his fingers and up towards his mouth, his breathing heavy and ragged. He opens up so nicely for his fingers, clenching down greedily around him as Shuuichi stretches him out.

Shuuichi folds one of Seiji’s legs and presses it up against his stomach, says, “Hold, please,”

Blushed all down his chest, Seiji grips his knee with one hand, holding himself open. A stab of arousal, so strong it’s almost painful, lances through Shuuichi’s core at the sight. He licks absently at the head of Seiji’s cock as he plays with the angle of his hand, eventually finding Seiji’s prostate on a deep thrust of his fingers. Seiji locks up around him, stomach muscles clenching, head dropping back, as he makes an absolutely _obscene_ sound.

“I missed it, earlier, when you came,” Shuuichi says, as lightly as he can manage, “That’s not very fair, is it?”

Seiji stares down at him, glassy-eyed, “Nnh—what?”

Shuuichi hums to cover the hungry groan in his throat, “So I’d say you owe me, don’t you think?”

Seiji shudders, his thighs trembling around Shuuichi.

“Yeah, wouldn’t you say you owe me a good show?” Shuuichi says, then licks a hot stripe up Seiji’s cock, “It is my birthday after all,”

“Sh-shit,” Seiji gasps, grinding down onto Shuuichi’s hand. They both hiss as he does, Shuuichi at the overwhelming heat of Seiji’s body, Seiji as Shuuichi’s fingers glance over his prostate.

“What do you say?” Shuuichi presses, “Can you show me how prettily you cum?”

Seiji shudders again, his hips snapping down onto Shuuichi’s hand, his cock twitching against his stomach.

“I-I... _ah_ , sh-shit,” Seiji gasps, “Yes, _yes_ , I want to—oh—"

He really looks incredible. Flushed all down his throat, sweater rucked up under his armpits clear of his cock red and straining and dripping, his thighs blushed from Shuuichi’s mouth and hands, spit and lube smeared everywhere. His head thrown back onto the couch, the long line of his pale throat, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he gasps for air.

Shuuichi will probably never touch himself to any other thought ever again.

“Come on, show me,” Shuuichi nearly whines, “I wanna see, Matoba,”

Seiji makes a choked, bitten-off sound as Shuuichi licks up his cock, thrusting his fingers relentlessly against his prostate. His thighs tremble around him, helpless sounds accompanying every breath, his hips jerking irregularly.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says, urgently. Shuuichi’s eyes fly up to his face, black hair stuck to his cheeks from sweat. Seiji shoves his blonde head away with one hand, “Are you watching?”

Then Seiji wraps his hand around his own cock, strokes rapidly, twisting his wrist and thumbing at the slit and just like that he’s coming. Back bowed, ass clenched impossibly tight around Shuuichi’s fingers, mouth dropping open on a soundless cry. Cum streaks across his stomach in lazy drips, his chest heaving as he works himself through it.

Shuuichi stares, all the blood pooled between his thighs, practically drooling, as Seiji twitches and gasps, ass clenching spasmodically around his fingers. Once it seems like Seiji has caught his breath, Shuuichi gently slips his fingers out and wipes them off on the track pants puddled at his knees. Seiji makes a soft, seemingly unconscious noise, his eye fluttering open.

Shuuichi clambers onto the couch, head-spinning, kicking his pants clumsily off as he does and pulls his shirt up out of the way of his own dripping cock.

Seiji drops his mouth open, gestures vaguely with one hand, “You want to use my mouth?”

“That’s—fuck, that’s hot,” he gasps, settling over Seiji’s lap. Seiji makes a small, pleased noise that is somehow both endearing and arousing. “You did so good, you can take a break,”

Seiji’s expression slides slowly towards a frown, then lightens once more to a relaxed almost-smile, “You won’t last thirty seconds, anyway,”

Shuuichi hisses as he wraps his fist around his cock, so riled up that his touch is enough to send jolts up his spine. 

“I won’t, that was—you’re so—fuck, you’re unbelievable,”

Seiji hums with satisfaction and touches a thumb to the head of Shuuichi’s cock. He circles slowly, rubbing at his slit with a lazy curiousity that has Shuuichi fucking up into his own fist desperately.

Shuuichi can’t help the long, low groan that rumbles out of him as he comes across Seiji’s stomach. The bright spike of release has stars popping in his vision, heat unfurling inside him into a rush of pleasure that swamps his senses. A contented sleepiness overcomes him, and he slumps, boneless, against Seiji.

“Get off,” Seiji grumbles.

Shuuichi snorts noisily into Seiji’s neck, “Just did,”

“Ugh,” Seiji pinches him, hard, in the side. Shuuichi resolutely nuzzles in.

“‘s my birthday,” he slurs against the soft skin over Seiji’s pulse, breathes in the sharp smell of sweat and the warm, almost spicy musk of the other man.

“We need to clean up,” Seiji says, but his hands are stroking lightly at Shuuichi’s sides. He sighs in response, threading one hand into Seiji’s long, silky hair.

Sternly, in the back of his head, is the refrain: _You’ll never recover from this. You’ve dug a grave too deep to crawl out of. You idiot, you’ll want this the rest of your life._

Seiji sighs, softly, his breath rustling the hair above Shuuichi’s ear, then plants his sharp chin on Shuuichi’s shoulder, settling in.

The rest of his life doesn’t sound so bad.


	2. winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re cute,”
> 
> “Excuse me?”
> 
> “I said what I said,”

Shuuichi tries to go through his life as normal. The rest of the month, and most of December, is eaten up recording for an audio drama. He has several meetings with his management, he reviews and renews a brand deal, does a shoot for a designer clothing line. Overall, it’s easy work, the kinds of gigs he got used to years ago.

Obviously, work isn’t the problem.

He’ll be going about his day when suddenly he remembers the sight of Seiji undone on his couch, remembers the absolutely obscene sounds he made, remembers that Seiji let Shuuichi lick inside him, and he’ll lose track of everything around him.

Desire is an arrow lodged in his heart, a fire in his gut, a distracting hum at the back of his mind.

He doesn’t trust himself, not fully, not yet. But he knows what he wants, now.

He knows what maybe he’s always wanted.

-

Recording wraps towards the end of the month, giving Shuuichi a quiet week before new years. He picks up clothes that have been languishing at the dry cleaner’s for weeks and dumps another load in their wake. He finally finishes the book he’s had on his bedside table for months. He has a heart attack when he answers the phone and hears Seiji’s voice, asking him,

“Are you free tonight?”

“Uh—yeah, I am,” Shuuichi says, slowly. He thinks, for one dizzying moment, that he must be hallucinating.

“Good, I’ll meet you downtown, outside the convention centre, at seven,” Seiji says briskly, the phoneline fizzling out around his words.

“Wh—"

“See you then,” Seiji hangs up with a clack, the phone line going dead in Shuuichi’s ear. He blinks down at the machine, trying to swallow back down his heart, thick in his throat.

It’s a clear, brisk night, powdery snow scuttling along the roads, the sky a deep navy, the moon a tiny pinpoint on the horizon. Shuuichi is ten minutes early, but Seiji is already waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk in a large black coat, a green scarf wrapped around his neck.

“It’s been a while,” Seiji says, as a greeting, his dark eye glittering. Winter looks good on Seiji, his pale skin flushed from the cold, his hair tangled up in the large scarf piled up over his chin.

Shuuichi very badly wants to kiss him, right on his pink nose.

“Good evening,” Shuuichi says. Seiji lilts towards him, slightly, and Shuuichi’s hand finds his elbow, strokes at his arm through his coat. Something flickers in Seiji’s eye, gone too quickly to make sense of.

“Shall we walk a bit?” Seiji says, airily, already turning down the road. Shuuichi stuffs his traitorous hands in his coat pockets, where they can’t do any harm.

The streets are hung with lights, glittering in the crisp night air, bouncing off the snow piled in drifts against the buildings. Closed off to cars, the area is instead busy with people out to admire the decorations. There are lots of couples, walking in tight pairs, heads leaned towards each other, arms intertwined. There are also a few rowdy groups of high schoolers, laughing and jumping on each other with the kind of unreserved glee Shuuichi has always found particularly alienating. As they walk, he’s very aware of the space between him and Seiji, attentive to the barest possibility of their sleeves brushing.

They pause under an enormous Christmas tree, a pillar of glittering lights and cherubic decorations and Seiji sniffs.

“It’s cold,” he says. Shuuichi glances at him side-long.

“This was your idea,” he replies. Seiji, for all appearances, doesn’t hear him.

“Let’s go somewhere to warm up,” Seiji says, and turns abruptly away, giving Shuuichi no choice but to trot after him.

Seiji leads the way to a nearby café. It’s at overcapacity but—sort of embarrassingly—the host recognizes Shuuichi. Two autographs and three photos later, they’ve been snugly tucked into a table along the back wall.

Seiji smiles at him sardonically, “I suppose you have your uses after all,”

Shuuichi is trying not to face the room full of people now curiously craning their necks towards their table, while also trying not to look like he’s hiding. He can feel the lizard doing nervous laps around his elbow.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Shuuichi says, pulling a face.

A server approaches to take their order. Seiji orders the daily special, some kind of horrible candy-cane hot chocolate, and Shuuichi asks for green tea. He makes sure to smile at her as charmingly as he can manage.

“It’s almost eerie,” Seiji remarks, once the server is out of earshot.

“What is?” Shuuichi asks, resigned.

“That whole performance,” Seiji props his chin in one hand, his eye sharp on Shuuichi’s face, “Pretending to be nice,”

The word seems to curdle in Seiji’s mouth like it’s an unsightly illness. 

“I am nice,” Shuuichi protests. Seiji’s lips tip up into a crooked smile.

“No,” he says, “You’re not,”

Shuuichi’s breath catches in his throat. He opens his mouth, shuts it, tries again—and the server returns to deposit their drinks with a cheerful smile. Shuuichi thanks them politely. Seiji doesn’t even look their way.

Seiji’s not wrong, is the thing. _Nice_ is a small, plain word for pleasant people. Shuuichi has strived to be liked, to be nice, by building a rickety outer shell that’s charming, easygoing.

But Seiji has seen the worst of him—prickly, cruel, greedy. Seiji knows his worst habits. Seiji knows _him_.

For a long moment they look at each other, sip their drinks, let the noise of the café wash over them.

“That’s fair,” Shuuichi eventually replies, “But I could be nice to you, if you wanted,”

Seiji’s whole face contracts around a grimace, startling a laugh out of Shuuichi.

“Okay, okay nevermind,” Shuuichi waves a hand as if to shoo his words away, still grinning. Seiji’s face shifts between several micro-expressions too fast to catch, eventually returning to his signature bland distain.

“You as you are is barely tolerable,” Seiji mutters, lifting his mug to his lips.

“Is that a compliment, Matoba?” Shuuichi props his chin in one hand. Seiji smiles at him blandly and sips his drink.

“Take it as you will,”

Shuuichi reaches a hand across the table, stops just short of Seiji’s knuckles. He smiles self-consciously, “I’m—it’s—it’s good to see you,”

Seiji’s gaze is locked on Shuuichi’s hand like it’s a viper. His knuckles bleed white from the tension of his fist. When he looks up into Shuuichi’s face his expression is perfectly bland, a faint, meaningless smile bending his mouth.

“Likewise,” he says, in a way that could mean anything at all. Shuuichi huffs a fond little sigh and the edges of Seiji’s expression falter. He thinks, _What are we doing here? Does this mean anything to you at all? Do you think of me when I’m not around?_ He asks, instead,

“Shall we head out?” And retracts his hand.

Shuuichi foots the bill, tips 200%, and thanks the host profusely for squeezing them in. A few young women are clustered outside the door to ask for autographs and Seiji slips away to watch from a distance as Shuuichi runs through the motions.

It’s not that he hates the attention—he generally loves it, actually, because he’s awful—it’s just horribly embarrassing to turn on the charm under Seiji’s judgemental gaze. The fans are sweet and polite, they usually are, and Shuuichi is able to slip away before he attracts any more attention.

“Sorry about that,” he says, once he’s back at Seiji’s side. Seiji just looks at him for a long moment, his expression something Shuuichi doesn’t want to parse.

“I wonder what they see in you,” he says, eventually, falsely thoughtful. Shuuichi snorts.

“You want to walk around some more?” He asks. Seiji cocks his head and smiles blandly.

“Alright,” he says, like he’s doing Shuuichi a favour.

They do another lap of the area. The lights gleam off the dark gloss of Seiji’s hair, the air paints his cheeks pink. Seiji doesn’t complain about the cold again, but at one point he shivers and Shuuichi is seized by a desire to kiss him until he’s breathless and squirming in his arms. He clenches his fists and counts to a hundred instead. When the desire hasn’t left him by the end, he buys Seiji chocolate and stews in the hungry feeling roaring between his ribs. Seiji eats the chocolate and smirks, like he knows.

Seiji gives him a ride home, the interior of the car toasty compared to the winter chill. They sit silently in the backseat, Shuuichi watches the city lights play across Seiji’s face. When Seiji turns to him, he looks abruptly away like the most obvious, embarrassing, version of himself.

The car pulls to a stop outside his apartment building. Shuuichi looks to Seiji, shrouded in shadows, his eyes glinting like a cat’s, and says, “Thanks,”

“My pleasure,” Seiji says, blandly, his mouth hitched up into a caustic smile.

Shuuichi steps out into the slap of night air, already digging into his jacket pocket for his keys, when a second door slams to echo his. He turns to see Seiji standing on the other side of the car, staring at him incisively, like he can see straight through him.

Seiji walks around the car. The lance of the headlights tangle around his legs, throws dramatic shadows up across his face. He stalks towards Shuuichi like a predator, his eye sharp even in the dark.

Shuuichi is pinned in place. _Catch me, catch me_.

Seiji stops just in front of him and, casual as anything, pushes him back against the car and steps in even closer, so their legs touch, their hips press together. With a flush of embarrassment Shuuichi thinks of the driver, still sitting dutifully at the wheel, but with an even deeper embarrassment realizes he doesn’t care.

Seiji leans in and kisses him, hands sliding up his arms to rest on his chest. Shuuichi loops his arms around his waist and kisses him back, languidly, their lips moving together easily. Seiji feels as hot as a brand against the cold night air, his mouth soft and eager, the press of his fingers urgent even through his coat.

They break apart slowly, Seiji presses a light kiss to the corner of Shuuichi’s mouth, flushed beautifully. As Seiji steps back, Shuuichi slowly releases him from the cradle of his arms. He smiles, faintly, an expression mostly in the crinkle of his eye.

“Goodnight, Shuuichi,” he says, his voice a soft rasp. Shuuichi clears his throat.

“Goodnight, Seiji.”

-

Shuuichi goes home for his annual new year’s visit, sits in the ringing silence of their family home trapped in his unofficial staring contest with his father. After forty-five minutes of excruciatingly awkward silence, Shuuichi is cued to leave by the caretaker and bolts.

He visits a shrine on his way out of town, prays for good health and success, makes offerings in Natsume’s name. He thinks of Seiji, wonders if it would be presumptuous to call and wish him a happy new year. Ultimately, he’s not sure where he stands with Seiji.

His whole body lights up hot when he thinks of Seiji on his couch, flushed and whiney, his body ravenous for Shuuichi’s touch. His chest twists curiously when he thinks of Seiji apathetically leading him around in the cold. Is it enough to make up for years of discontent? For all their miscommunications and false moves, for all his cruelties?

_I thought I’d never be able to forgive you_ rings in his ears.

There’s a slim window in January when Shuuichi’s schedule is blessedly free, and he lets it slip by without calling. Afterwards, he gets busy. Every time he thinks of trying to reach out to Seiji his crowded schedule bullies its way to the front of his mind. It’s a bad habit, but he’s accustomed to denying himself the things he wants so Shuuichi, like the coward he is, burrows into his work and pretends there isn’t an ache between his ribs.

He has a brief TV appearance as part of a fundraising event, and hires his favourite stylist, Mia, for it. They’re making idle small talk as Mia fusses with his hair and tries to find a good colour match for his winter-pale skin.

“What am I supposed to do with all this?” She complains, tousling back his overgrown fringe.

“Sorry, sorry, I was asked to grow it out—“ Shuuichi says, grinning at her exaggerated dismay.

“Ugh, I do _not_ think it suits you, no offence,” Mia tsk’s, fishing bobby pins from her pocket to fix back his hair.

“None taken,” Shuuichi says, easily. His appearance fluctuates based on the whims of others; his hair, weight, which facial features are drawn out by makeup, and which concealed, it’s almost impossible to take any comments about his appearance seriously. 

“You seeing anyone lately? It’s been _years_ since Kiko,” Mia asks, looking critically at his face as she sponges makeup over the dark circles under his eyes. It’s kind of nice being looked at but not seen, the way Mia looks at him when she’s doing his makeup. Looking at the components of his face, not the whole picture. It makes it easier to be honest.

“Hmm… I went for a walk with someone the other week?” Shuuichi offers.

“Oh?” Mia snaps to attention, a devilish twinkle in her eye, “What day, exactly?”

“Oh, the twenty-fourth? I guess?” Shuuichi has to count back in his head. “I don’t know that it qualifies as anything, though. Mostly they complained about the cold and made me buy sweets,”

“Walking around together on Christmas Eve?” Mia says, then snorts with disbelief, “That’s a date, hon,”

Shuuichi takes this like a slap to the face. Could it be possible that Matoba Seiji, head of the largest exorcist clan and emotionally repressed iceberg of a human being, specifically asked Shuuichi out on _Christmas Eve?_

Mia smirks, combing powder through his brows, “The bratty type, huh? I’m a bit surprised, Natori,”

Shuuichi grins. Bratty suits Seiji as much as it would a venomous snake. He wonders how Seiji would react if he called him a brat? Get annoyed, _bite him...?_

Mia taps his shoulder, “Earth to Natori,” He blinks and schools his expression back to one of relaxed interest. Mia smirks at him like she can see straight through him. “Never thought I’d see you so smitten,”

_Smitten_ is a tender, sweet word for what often feels like a hurricane in his chest. He looks up while Mia applies mascara to his eyelashes, staring at the back of her head in the mirror. Her dark hair is done up in an elaborate, glossy braid. Shuuichi thinks of long, black hair tangled around his fingers. He thinks, _You might not get a chance later._

“Say, Mia, could you teach me to French braid?” he asks, falsely casual. Mia laughs,

“Okay, but only because it’s you, Natori,” she says, “It’s nice to see you like this,”

He takes Natsume to a hot spring for a weekend, something of a tradition for them. With snow falling softly outside, the flakes melting mid-air above the steaming baths, it’s picture perfect. Natsume even manages to go the whole weekend without finding trouble; they drink with an old couple one night, play table tennis, wander the shops with an idle eye out for a gift for Nyanko. 

Natsume is relaxed and happy and doesn’t take any of Shuuichi’s shit, as usual. It’s good to spend a couple days with him, feels like a truly fresh start to the new year. Still, his mind is split, his heart divided.

He guests on a reality dating show, where he smiles and says a lot of meaningless platitudes about the pursuit of love.

“What about you, Natori-san, have you ever thought about settling down?” One of the panelists asks him. He grins,

“Every person I’ve been with has made me consider it,” he says, which is such an outrageous lie it hurts even him to tell it.

“Oh? So you’re quite a serious suitor, then,” Another chimes in.

“Yes, I guess in that sense I am kind of an all or nothing person,”

“Then how—then how come you’re single?” One panelist calls out above the approving coos and excited clapping of the others. Shuuichi winces and smiles sheepishly.

“I accept full responsibility,” he says, his faux drama earning him laughs. The panelists turn on each other, poking fun at one another’s idiosyncrasies and bad habits and all Shuuichi has to do is laugh and nod along until they wrap on the segment.

As the weeks pass a feeling grows inside him, strange and powerful. It weighs on him, heavy-hearted, a coldness that seeps into his bones, has him looking to the people around him with an empty longing.

Over the phone, he tries to describe the feeling to Natsume; “I’ve been feeling weird, like my chest is empty? And sometimes it’s hard to talk to people even though I want to, you know?”

“I… you mean you’re lonely?” Natsume asks, hesitantly.

“Uh—” Shuuichi very tellingly stalls out.

“Natori,” Natsume says, with a disarming combination of fondness and exasperation. Shuuichi can picture the pinch of his brows. “Why don’t you come to the Fujiwara’s for dinner with me on Saturday?”

Shuuichi can’t exactly say no, not after showing his hand so blatantly.

Natsume’s probably right, he must be lonely, something he’s surely been before, but never felt so acutely. It’s as though seeing Seiji again, after all the years, has woken him to _wanting_. He longs for Seiji, his absence an abscess he can’t help but tongue, playing over in his mind the things he might say, the expressions he might make, remembering the feel of his hands on his body, his taste in his mouth.

Nearly four weeks after Seiji shoved him up against his car, Shuuichi picks up the phone and calls.

“Yes?” Seiji’s voice is cold and soft on the line. Shuuichi’s heart jackrabbits at the sound. He had been braced to talk to a servant or—god forbid—Nanase, so he freezes up.

“Matoba,” he says, his voice caught in his throat.

“Shuuichi-san? To what do I owe the pleasure?” Seiji says, his tone dry and unreadable. Shuuichi realizes, acutely, that talking to Seiji without being able to see his face is a nightmare.

“Uh… Happy new year?” Shuuichi says, weakly. There’s a rough, staticky sound that could be a cough or a sigh or a laugh.

“Happy new year,” Seiji replies. They fall into a long, thick silence. Shuuichi breaks into a cold sweat. He’s just going to have to pull the trigger.

Gathering all the charm and suave accumulated through a decade in the entertainment industry, Shuuichi struggles out; “D-do you want to come over for dinner?”

“Yes,” Seiji says evenly, “I do.”

“Great,” Shuuichi says, voice thin, “When are you free?”

Seiji hums, softly, a soothing sound in his ear, then eventually says; “Wednesday, around eight,”

If Shuuichi has to rearrange his schedule to make it work, Seiji doesn’t need to know.

Shuuichi meets Seiji at the door, hangs up his thick coat while Seiji kicks off his sneakers and shoves his feet into a pair of slippers. He’s wearing sweats; the pants ragged at the heels, the sweater two sizes too large, both in faded black. Shuuichi would be annoyed, maybe, if his heart didn’t race at the sight of him.

Seiji follows him into the kitchen, nose lifted to the air, his mouth folded into a frown. Shuuichi moves to the stove and tosses spaghetti into a pot of boiling water. Seiji peers around the apartment, as if he’s expecting it to look different, now.

“You can cook?” Seiji asks, suspiciously, sitting at the dining table.

“I can cook this,” Shuuichi replies.

“Ah. I see,” Seiji says, sounding relieved. Shuuichi looks down to hide his smile. He stirs the sauce, bubbling slightly on the stove, and retrieves the foil-wrapped garlic bread from the oven and carries it to the table. Seiji watches him, his gaze a heavy weight on the back of his neck.

“You waited a long time to call,” Seiji says, his voice low and bland. Shuuichi runs a hand through his hair to hide his wince.

“Yeah, I did,” he says, instead of _I’m sorry_.

Seiji stares at him, his eye flicking across Shuuichi’s face as if in search of something. Whatever he finds seems to be enough, because he hums and props his chin on one hand, looking away.

Shuuichi plates the pasta and brings it over to the dining table, where he unwraps the foil around the garlic bread before sitting opposite Seiji. All the lights are on, even the floor lamp by the tv, Seiji is wearing sweatpants that he’s probably had since high school, it’s a Wednesday night. It isn’t a date. Is it? His traitorous heart thunders in his throat.

Seiji takes a bite of pasta, chews thoughtfully for a long moment. “It’s mediocre,”

Shuuichi can’t even pretend this doesn’t please him. He’s smiling when he says, “As if you could do better,”

Seiji sniffs, “As if I’d cook for you,”

“As if you know how,” Shuuichi shoots back, childishly. Seiji chews another bite, staring flatly at him across the table. Shuuichi rolls spaghetti around his fork without breaking eye contact.

Seiji looks worn thin, his complexion pale edging towards grey, a bruise-black smear dragging down his eye. Shuuichi knows little to none about what being head of the Matoba clan means in terms of duties, beyond the everyday exorcist jobs they’d run into each other on. Seiji must manage his staff and properties as well. Does he file the clan’s taxes? Sit in on business meetings?

Shuuichi takes a bite of pasta. Mediocre is right. Maybe he should brush up on his cooking. Maybe Seiji would look less like shit if he ate properly. Maybe he should stop overthinking this.

“I hope the new year’s been treating you well,” Shuuichi says. Seiji chews at him, unimpressed.

“I know I look like shit,” he says, around a mouthful of garlic bread.

“That’s not what I meant. You don’t—"

Seiji draws a finger meaningfully down the thin skin below his eye, blackish from lack of sleep. “Some of us have responsibilities, you know. Some of us have people relying on them,”

Shuuichi resists, barely, pulling a face. “I know.”

Seiji squints at him. “And what about you? The Natori name seems to have fallen off the map once again,”

Shuuichi shrugs, “I suppose Natsume talked me over to his way of doing things and I—well, there’s no point in pretending there was anything special about my abilities,”

Seiji’s expression shifts, inscrutable. “It’s strange not having you in that world,”

Shuuichi’s heart constricts into an icy fist. He smiles charmingly, “If you miss me, I’ll come back,”

Seiji glares, “That’s not what I said, and you don’t mean that,”

“Sure I do,”

“No,” Seiji says firmly, “You don’t. If you did you would’ve never left,”

Shuuichi blinks, stunned into silence. Seiji chews his pasta mulishly.

“Matoba, I—"

“Forget it,” Seiji snaps, “It’s in the past, let’s leave it,”

Shuuichi stares at him for a moment, a bitter frustration clogging his throat. He cannot quite believe that Seiji would bring it up so easily, skirting around the last time the two of them imploded spectacularly. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The space between them is so littered with mines there isn’t a safe place to stand.

_So break new ground_.

“Okay, fine. But I said I’d make it up to you and I meant it,” Shuuichi stabs his forkful of spaghetti at the wraith seated opposite, “And don’t underestimate me,”

Seiji smiles in his way that means he’s internally laughing at Shuuichi in particular. “Oh? But you make it so easy,”

“Can’t you talk like a normal person?” Shuuichi sighs, “Just—tell me about how you’ve been. What you’ve been up to,”

Seiji squints at him, “Why?”

“Because I’d like to know,” Shuuichi enunciates clearly. Seiji’s brow cocks up.

“Curious, are you?” He drawls, an effect somewhat hampered by the large bite he tears out of garlic bread immediately after. Speaking through his mouthful he says, “Alright. If you’re sure it won’t bore you,”

So Seiji talks a while about the clan and his work. He’s a bit stilted, time to time, as though he’s talking around something big. But he tells Shuuichi about his meetings with a local politician, the reshuffling of staff, briefly mentions Nanase’s work but then quickly changes the topic, glancing off something he obviously doesn’t want to discuss. Mediocre or not, he cleans his plate and mutters his thanks.

As he does the dishes Shuuichi talks about his shoots that month, quickly, tersely, very aware of Seiji’s distaste for his job. Seiji listens, walking around the apartment and turning off the lights until only the floor lamp is on, a puddle of light in an otherwise black room. Shuuichi watches him, his heart in his mouth.

Seiji stops by the couch and jerks his chin towards it, “Come here,”

Shuuichi does as he’s told, walking across the darkened room to sit on the couch. Seiji stands over him and undoes his hair, combs haphazardly through it so it falls over his shoulders, down to his waist. Shuuichi forgets to breathe. Seiji straddles his lap, hands on his shoulders, an almost-smile pulling at his mouth.

“You like this,” he says, conversationally.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Shuuichi wheezes around the sudden desire blooming hot between his ribs. Seiji looks down at him, almost-smiling, as Shuuichi touches his hands ever so lightly to his slim hips.

He wants him to stay, wants to wake up in the morning and find Seiji sleep-soft beside him, wants to see how sleep changes his face, his voice. It seems like a lot to ask.

Seiji tips his face down and catches Shuuichi’s mouth with his, teeth nibbling lightly, lips moving deliberately against him. Shuuichi responds eagerly, running his hands up Seiji’s sides, tangling in his hair, smoothing down the planes of his back. Seiji makes a soft sound, shifts closer, his body hot and firm against his, his thighs a vice around Shuuichi’s hips.

Shuuichi’s pulse hammers in his throat, heat beginning to pool in his gut, electric tingles racing across his skin wherever they touch. He tilts his head and licks into Seiji’s mouth, tastes lingering garlic, cups the back of his neck to hold him closer, taste deeper. Seiji grinds down into his lap, releasing a breathy whine that Shuuichi swallows greedily.

They break apart slowly, Shuuichi tilting up to press a lingering kiss to his bottom lip. The same familiar greed is clogging Shuuichi’s throat, but having Seiji over, cooking him dinner, it’s so horribly domestic. And he’s so soft and relaxed in his lap now, hair undone, glossy in the dim light.

Shuuichi buries his face in the curtain of Seiji’s hair and says, with horrible sincerity, “I want to see you again,”

Seiji shifts against him, “Oh?”

He pushes his face, burning with embarrassment, against Seiji’s shoulder. He’s obvious, he’s pathetic, but so what? He won’t get what he wants by playing it close to the vest. 

“Yeah,”

He feels a tremor work through Seiji’s body, his limbs stiffening as if to hold it off. He can feel the thrum of his heartbeat in his throat. He doesn’t know what any of it means.

“Alright,” Seiji says, eventually, voice stripped bland.

He combs his fingers through Seiji’s hair for a moment, revelling the feel of the strands, soft against his skin, then pulls back to look into his face. Seiji watches him quietly, his lips parted ever so slightly, a pink stain to his cheeks. Shuuichi clears his throat, skates his fingers across Seiji’s collarbone.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is still hoarse, embarrassingly affected. Seiji nods, his expression blank. But he lifts his arms obligingly as Shuuichi slips the sweater up, exposing the pale skin of his chest, the faint trail of dark hair below his belly button. Shuuichi swallows, thickly.

“And this?” He touches his fingers to the very edge of the eyepatch. Seiji’s expression flickers—the faintest squint of his eye—then he tips his head to one side.

“Why?” He asks, his voice clear. Shuuichi feels himself blush.

“I wanna see you,” he mumbles. Seiji stares at him, the moment stretching thin, nerves settling into a cold ball in the bottom of Shuuichi’s stomach.

Wordlessly, Seiji reaches up and unties the eyepatch, rolls it up neatly and sets it aside. The mulish slant to his mouth when he looks at Shuuichi seems almost a challenge. He looks back at him, carefully blank. The dim light throws tangled shadows across the right side of his face from the gnarled scar tracing around his eye socket. Shuuichi knows better than to say _thank you_ , instead he touches both hands to Seiji’s chest, drags his fingers along the line of his collarbone, dips down his sides, draws across his stomach. Goosebumps flare up in the wake of his touch. Everywhere Seiji is so soft, his skin almost bizarrely unblemished but for the scar on his eye.

Shuuichi tips his face up and kisses Seiji, unhurried despite the harsh bites Seiji sinks into his lip. He dances his fingers up Seiji’s chest, circles his nipples until they harden and Seiji shivers. Encouraged, he flicks the nubs with his thumbs then pinches gently. Seiji gasps into his mouth, drags his nails across the back of his neck.

Shuuichi kisses his way down Seiji’s throat, his chest, moving one hand to the base of his spine to press him closer as his lips find one flushed nipple and suck it into his mouth. Seiji gasps again, squirming against him. Shuuichi licks and sucks, scratching one hand lightly down his side while the other continues to press at Seiji’s lower back, kneading his flesh firmly.

“So sensitive,” Shuuichi murmurs, his lips brushing Seiji’s skin.

Seiji makes a thin, pitchy noise as Shuuichi takes his other nipple into his mouth, his hand clawing at Shuuichi’s hair, the other pressing urgently on his shoulder. He continues like that for a while, alternating between nipples, rubbing soothingly at the base of Seiji’s spine, encouraging the slightest friction between their hips. Seiji squirms, grinding into him, panting and gasping, as the blush spreading down his throat eventually connects with the reddened skin of his chest.

Shuuichi slowly straightens, dragging his mouth up the furious blush along Seiji’s chest, throat, finally finds his mouth again and Seiji licks greedily into him, clutching him close. When they break apart, gasping for air, Seiji’s hair is tangled in their arms, rushing silky over bare skin. Shuuichi shivers and Seiji’s gaze sharpens.

“Take your pants off?” Shuuichi presses the question to the thin skin of Seiji’s collarbone. Seiji sighs, as if Shuuichi is being annoying. He feels Seiji nod, curtly, then he untangles himself from Shuuichi’s lap, stands on unsteady feet to shuck his sweatpants and underwear in one go. Shuuichi stares. Seiji is lean and thin, his ribs and hipbones press gently against his skin, his narrow thighs dusted with dark hair, stark against the porcelain paleness of his skin. With his long, black hair falling down to his hips in a tangled cascade, he looks more spirit than human.

“Arms up,” Seiji snaps. Shuuichi dumbly does as he’s told, and Seiji yanks his shirt off, tosses it aside. His dark eyes are appraising, hungry. It’s almost like being caught in the gaze of a predator, but like, a really, really hot one. Seiji’s tongue flicks out, tastes his bottom lip.

Shuuichi holds his breath as Seiji climbs back onto his lap, releasing it in a shaky sigh as their naked skin slides together, electric. Seiji’s hand chases the lizard’s path up Shuuichi’s arm. He runs his hands in turn down Seiji’s back, over his ass, thighs, up his stomach, no pattern to his touch, just a greedy need to feel him everywhere.

“You’re so pretty,” Shuuichi whispers, his fingers drifting lightly over Seiji’s erection. Seiji makes a small, derisive noise in the back of his throat. Shuuichi runs a hand up the back of Seiji’s neck and tugs him down into a slow, thorough kiss. The wet slide of their tongues together stokes a hotter, heavier fire inside him, but he keeps his touch light as his hand drifts up and down Seiji’s thighs, skating around one hip then back. Seiji shivers in his lap, arms coiling around his neck, his hips hitching up as Shuuichi drifts his hand over his cock.

Shuuichi breaks the kiss, panting a bit, and spits into his palm then wraps his hand around Seiji’s cock. Seiji makes a small, breathless sound before Shuuichi claims his mouth again. He strokes him slowly, smearing spit down his shaft, keeping his touch light. Seiji whines softly into his mouth, fidgeting in his lap and heat coils, nearly irresistibly tight, in his gut.

Seiji leans his forehead against Shuuichi’s shoulder, gasping hotly against his skin, as Shuuichi strokes him slowly, combing gently through his hair with the other hand.

“Hnh, you’re—" Seiji grits out, “Stop teasing me,”

“No,” Shuuichi says, shivering when Seiji gasps hotly against his collarbone in response, “I like you like this, so pretty when you blush,”

Seiji’s hips hitch impatiently forward, fucking into Shuuichi’s fist. “Shuuichi—" He says, warningly, but cuts off into a gasp as Shuuichi thumbs the slit of his cock.

“Mm, next time I’ll do whatever you want,” He breathes out, all in a rush, Seiji shudders, “So sit pretty and be patient, okay?”

Seiji bites down, hard, into his shoulder. Shuuichi hisses, flinching as Seiji’s teeth dig deep, his hand stuttering on his cock as a heavy twinge of heat blooms in his navel.

Seiji pulls back and glares at him, the effect somewhat softened by the red flush to his cheeks, “Stop calling me pretty,”

“What’s the problem?” Shuuichi asks, twisting his hand around his cock so Seiji’s eyes flutter.

Seiji shudders, fucking up into his fist, one hand clawing up to his shoulder. “You talk too much,” he spits, digging his thumb into the fresh bite mark. A hot jolt runs down Shuuichi’s spine and he moans, head dropping back against the couch.

“I think you like it,” Shuuichi gasps. Seiji cuts him off with a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, whining breathily into him. It’s not a _no_. Shuuichi slips his free hand down Seiji’s spine, rubs at the top of the seam of his ass.

“Fuck,” Seiji gasps wetly, smearing his lips against Shuuichi’s jaw.

“Yeah, so good, you’re so good,” Shuuichi runs his finger down, circles Seiji’s entrance, “Such pretty noises, such a pretty blush,”

Seiji whines, hips jerking unsteadily, caught between Shuuichi’s two hands. Shuuichi tips his head back, panting, trying to glimpse Seiji’s expression.

“Let me see you, show me how good you feel, baby,” he murmurs. Seiji shudders, his fingers digging into Shuuichi’s shoulders, “C’mon, please, you look so good,”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Seiji rasps, but he leans back, so Shuuichi can see all down his front, his swollen nipples, his cock red and leaking in his fist.

“If you really want me to I will,” Shuuichi says, breathlessly earnest. Seiji makes a low noise and leans in to kiss Shuuichi then bites down, hard, splitting his lip. The iron tang of blood floods his mouth and Shuuichi winces even as his woefully neglected cock throbs in his pants.

“Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me,” Shuuichi gasps, rubbing his finger against Seiji’s entrance, swirling his thumb around his slick cockhead. Seiji whines, bucking in his lap. “You make me fucking crazy,”

“Sh-Shuuichi, I—" Seiji breaks off, jaw clenching as he tries and fails to swallow a moan, “I’m close can you just—just fucking hurry up,”

“Not a chance,” Shuuichi breathes. He pumps his hand steadily, even lightens his grip slightly, revelling in the spurts of precum from Seiji’s cock. “Wish I had lube, open you up on my fingers, you’d like that, huh?”

Seiji’s eyes close and his head tips back, his only response a strangled whine as he bears down as if to take Shuuichi’s finger dry.

“Yeah you like my hands a lot, don’t you? Desperate for it, sorry I can’t deliver,” Shuuichi twists his fist around Seiji’s cock, “It’s a shame, you take it so well, wanna get you on my cock, see how you handle that,”

“Shuuichi—“ Seiji gasps, as if struck, nails digging into his shoulders, cock throbbing in his loose grip.

“Bet you’d look so pretty on my cock,” Shuuichi coos, “Bet you’d make the most wonderful sounds,”

“ _Fuck_ —I, I need—uhn,” Seiji groans.

“What do you need? Tell me what you need,” Shuuichi murmurs earnestly.

“I need to _fucking come_ , Shuuichi!” Seiji snaps, eyes slitting open into a glare. All the breath leaves Shuuichi’s lungs in a rush, his whole body throbbing hot with desire.

“Yeah, come for me, I know you can, show me,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s hand comes down between them, fastens around Shuuichi’s wrist tightly. Shuuichi doesn’t falter in his steady pace, thumbing the leaking head of his cock on every up stroke. “Come for me, Seiji,”

Seiji whines, high and thin, bucking senselessly between Shuuichi’s hands, his brows snapped down into a frown, his eyes screwed shut, blushing furiously, a field of pink spread down his throat and chest.

“Ah—ah—fuck, I can’t I need, uhn, more, I’m—" Seiji’s hand tightens around his wrist to the point Shuuichi swears his bones creak, but he continues to stroke his cock slowly, panting as he looks up into his beautiful, blushing face.

“Yes you can, I know you can, you’re so close, come on,” Shuuichi pants, rutting up mindlessly, his cock throbbing painfully.

“I—fuck— _oh_ —!” Seiji breaks off into a high, thin shout, his whole body shuddering, thighs shaking spastically, clenching around Shuuichi’s hips, his cock pulsing as he comes forcefully, cum streaking up Shuuichi’s stomach. Shuuichi strokes him through it, milking every last drop from him, until Seiji winces, a muscle spasming in his jaw.

“So pretty,” Shuuichi murmurs, pressing a kiss to Seiji’s sweaty collarbone, “That was perfect,”

Seiji shudders, his thighs still twitching from aftershocks, and drops his head onto Shuuichi’s shoulder. His grip gradually loosens around Shuuichi’s wrist as his breath evens out, hot puffs of air against the sensitive skin of Shuuichi’s throat.

Then Seiji pulls back and looks down meaningfully at where Shuuichi’s cock is pressed against his pants, a wet spot blooming in the material.

“And yourself?” He asks, dryly. Shuuichi flushes hotly.

“I’m—I’m alright,” he says.

“What, you’ll just wait?” Seiji asks, cocking a brow at him. Shuuichi’s breath stutters.

“M-maybe, yeah,”

Seiji hums, “Touch yourself all alone, thinking of me? How I looked in your lap? Pathetic,” Shuuichi gasps, pleasure spiking so hot in his belly it’s near painful. Seiji’s mouth twitches towards a smile. “It’s the least you deserve,” he drawls.

“Yeah,” Shuuichi agrees, senselessly. Seiji places his hand over the hard line of Shuuichi’s cock through his pants and he jolts into the touch, fire spearing through him.

“Maybe next time I won’t let you touch at all, hmm? Since you can’t even do that right,” Seiji says, his voice cold. “You can just watch,”

“Watch?” Shuuichi echoes. Seiji presses down on his cock and he gasps, hips hitching into the feeling.

“Yes, watch me touch myself. If you pay attention you might learn how to do it properly,” Seiji tilts his head to one side, “What do you think?”

“I—I—" Shuuichi gasps. Seiji’s palm is a steady, unmoving pressure against his clothed dick but he’s so close already.

“Words, please, Natori,” Seiji snaps.

“ _Yes_ , just tell me what you want I’ll do it,” Shuuichi gasps out, pleasure twisting tightly in his navel, “I’ll be good next time, I promise,”

“I’m not sure you mean it,” Seiji murmurs, lips hitching up into a crooked smile as he grinds his palm down. Shuuichi gasps thickly as his orgasm whips through him, the tension inside him releasing in a wave of pleasure that swamps his whole body.

He pants for breath as he comes back down, his climax fizzling out into a comforting warmth. Seiji is watching him carefully, expression blank but for the tiniest uptick in the corner of his mouth.

Shuuichi winds his arms around Seiji’s waist and pulls him down flush, tucking his face into his collarbone. Warmth blooms between their bodies, merges with the lingering shocks of his orgasm. Seiji lets himself be held, though he doesn’t relax entirely.

“Stay the night?” Shuuichi asks, softly, knowing he’s pushing his luck. The words hang for a long moment, before Seiji sighs into his hair, ruffling the strands. Shuuichi smiles against his collarbone. He knows a victory when he sees it.

He lends Seiji clothes for the night, a secret, possessive pleasure blooming inside his chest to see Seiji wearing an old t-shirt of his, loose around the shoulders. They wash up, crowded around the small bathroom sink to brush their teeth. Shuuichi finds himself constantly staring at Seiji, in his clothes, in his home, and is still too sleep-stupid from his orgasm to look away fast enough to not be caught. Seiji takes mercy on him and doesn’t say anything.

Shuuichi flops shirtless, facedown, on the bed while Seiji finishes up in the bathroom. The only light comes from the blur of the city outside the window, but it’s enough to see by. His heart thunders in his chest. He can’t believe Seiji agreed to stay.

Seiji quietly slips into bed beside him. He lays his hand between Shuuichi’s shoulder blades, covering where the lizard has curled up on his spine. Shuuichi steels himself against a shiver that races across his skin.

“Do you still worry about it?” Seiji asks. Shuuichi turns his head to look at him.

“Sure. But it’s been so long I...” Shuuichi frowns, grasping for the right words and settling for; “I’m resigned to it, I guess,”

It’s hard to describe his feelings towards the mark. He loathed it so acutely, for so long, that the memory of that hatred, of that disgust, still lingers like a foul taste in his mouth. But it’s been so many years and nothing has come of it—at least nothing Shuuichi can measure. He’s never really alone, so long as the lizard is crawling under his skin. It’s hard to maintain hatred for a constant companion.

Seiji’s nails dig into the soft skin of Shuuichi’s back. He feels the lizard stir, creep out from under Seiji’s touch. He can see Seiji’s eyes on it, his gaze faraway, considering.

“It’s quite nasty, isn’t it?” Seiji says, blandly. Shuuichi smiles. The lizard often feels like a dirty secret. The few who can see it are too nice, too polite, to comment on it negatively. It’s a relief to have Seiji come out and say it. Seiji’s eyes flicker up to meet his with a smile.

Shuuichi rolls to face him and pulls Seiji in flush.

“I can’t sleep like this,” Seiji mutters. Shuuichi nuzzles down into his neck and licks over his pulse. He smells good, his own musky scent mingled with the smell of Shuuichi’s detergent. His dick perks with interest.

“Have you tried before?” Shuuichi asks, shifting so his leg slots between Seiji’s, his arm cushions his head. Seiji’s hand comes to rest on his hip, where he pinches hard.

“No,” he snaps. Shuuichi hums against his neck.

“Then let’s see,”

Seiji grumbles and shifts a little but doesn’t pull away. A hot, bright feeling blooms in Shuuichi’s chest, his ribs aching as his heart swells. He falls asleep warm… and happy.

When Shuuichi wakes in the morning, he’s alone. The empty half of his bed is cold, the rumpled sheets smell only of sweat, no lingering musk to feed the fire of his memory. He looks for, but never finds, the shirt he lent Seiji and smiles privately to himself. Then he jacks off in the shower to the blessedly recent memory of Seiji’s touch. 

-

Shuuichi calls Seiji the next week from his management’s office while his agent’s in another meeting somewhere in the warren of offices in the building. He has just enough time to make a call, if he can only build up the nerve to dial.

He paces for several minutes, phone in hand, talking himself around to the idea of acting on his desires. _You asked him to stay and he did!_ He tells himself, worrying his bottom lip, _Just because he doesn’t forgive you doesn’t mean he hates you!_

When he does, at last, punch in the number and call, a voice not Seiji’s own answers: “Good morning, Matoba residence,”

“Good morning, I’m Natori Shuuichi I was ah—hoping to speak with Matoba-san?”

“Oh, _Natori_ ,” the speaker says, meaningfully, “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“Nanase-san,” Shuuichi realizes with a flush, “It—it has,”

Nanase chuckles fuzzily on the phone line. There’s a muffled thump in the background followed by what sounds like a strong wind blowing across the mouthpiece.

“Alright, alright,” Nanase says, her smile evident in her voice before a scuffling sound bursts down the line. A brief silence follows, then;

“Natori.” Seiji says.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi replies, feeling a silly little grin grow on his face. Seiji clears his throat.

“What do you want?”

“Are you free sometime, for dinner? I’d like to make up for my cooking,” Shuuichi says. Seiji is quiet for a beat, then there’s a rustling sound.

“Not dinner, no,” Seiji says, quietly. Shuuichi can hear the _but_ in his voice and waits him out. “I could do lunch next Tuesday,”

Shuuichi feels a rush of relief. He has that day completely off.

“Great. Does noon work? How do you feel about Thai food?”

“Noon is fine. I feel neutral,” Seiji says, flatly. Shuuichi runs a hand through his overgrown hair and tugs, grinning down at the desk idiotically. He gives Seiji the address to a restaurant close to his apartment.

“I’ll see you then,” Shuuichi says, then adds; “Look forward to it,”

There’s a pause that lasts all the longer for not being able to see Seiji’s face. At last he says, “Of course.”

When Shuuichi hangs up he turns to find his agent standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously.

“I’ve never seen such a look on your face,” Minami says, smiling. Shuuichi runs a hand over his mouth. “Do I get to know who that was? No? That’s fine,” Minami moves to sit at her desk and gestures for Shuuichi to join her. “It’s nice to see you like this,” she adds with a smile.

Shuuichi lowers himself into the chair opposite and thinks of his stylist, teasing him even as she talked him through braiding her hair. Is he really so obvious?

“Do I really seem so miserable?” Shuuichi jokes. Minami shoots him a wry look.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” she says, briskly, pulling some papers towards herself. Shuuichi must admit that’s solid advice. Though it’s also an answer in its own way.

“Well. We’re going to need to start gearing up for the _New Year’s Kiss_ shoot in the spring,” Minami says, flipping through some papers on her desk. Shuuichi nods along absently. “I know we already went over the casting notes—“

“I’m growing out my hair, aren’t I?” Shuuichi says, flicking his fringe out of his face. It’s about as long as he wore it in high school, and incredibly annoying. Minami eyes him critically,

“You really should figure out someway to style it,” she says. Shuuichi sticks his tongue out at her. “But you should also think about—“

“Hitting the gym, cutting back on carbs,” he says, in a bored tone. Minami, well aware of his shit attitude towards diet and exercise, snorts.

“May I remind you that you have a nude scene? You’ll thank yourself later for getting in shape,”

Shuuichi groans, “You’re right, of course, you’re always right,”

A smile twitches at the corner of Minami’s mouth. “I think you’ll have fun once you’re on set,”

“’Course I will, I always have fun with Kiko-san,” Shuuichi replies, easily. He has a long history with the actress; they filmed a wildly successful romance early in their careers that kicked off years of rumours about their off-set romance. Their chemistry, both on and off screen, has long become a part of both their brands.

Manami eyes him, “If you’re dating again—"

“Not at all!” Shuuichi laughs her off, “I’ve long since sworn off dating,”

She frowns, lines drawing down the corners of her mouth. “Right. Well, it’s a slow time of year so it’s the perfect time to focus on yourself. Did any of those projects I gave you catch your eye?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, that Izumiya movie, the period piece? That looked cool,” Shuuichi says, casually and carelessly. His body burns cold. He wants it. He wants it so badly he’s sure he’ll be told no.

Manami lights up, “ _Really?_ That was probably the one I was the least sure about. But I love it, I think it’ll be really good for you,”

Shuuichi just kind of looks at her, dumbstruck.

“Izumiya is really an actor’s director, I think you’ll learn a lot from him,” Manami says, scribbling rapidly on a notepad, “I’ll open up contract negotiations,”

“Okay, great,” Shuuichi says, his voice thin. After a beat he adds, “Don’t negotiate too hard,”

Manami smiles warmly up at him, “Alright, just for you,”

-

February crawls on with low, grey skies, the cold air damp with the promise of spring rain. They met for lunch, as planned. Seiji wore real pants with his ratty old sweatshirt, a heart-warming concession to dressing like a respectable adult.

What conversation they could manage eased back into an easy silence as they finished off their meals. Either their silences are becoming more comfortable, or Shuuichi is becoming comfortable with their antagonistic silences.

At the end Seiji glanced at his watch—a much-scuffed Casio that made Shuuichi wonder where all the Matoba’s generational wealth ended up—and said, “I’ve got a few more hours free,”

Shuuichi grinned like a fool. “You want to catch a movie?”

“Is one of yours out?” Seiji asked, smiling at him blandly.

“You don’t—you don’t want to watch those,” Shuuichi insisted. And Seiji, like a shark after blood, only smiled wider.

Which is how, an hour later, Shuuichi finds himself cringing through a DVD of one of his serial mysteries in his own home.

It’s not that he’s particularly embarrassed of his performance or anything, he’s just never quite gotten the hang of watching himself onscreen. He amuses himself the first twenty minutes by trying to remember the details of the shoot, but they made so many in the series so quickly it’s mostly a blur.

He remembers the countryside shoot, and his quiet costar. He remembers going out for drinks and kissing her in the back of a cab, on a lark. He remembers that she smelled sweet, like fruit.

“Who is she?” Seiji mutters, urgently. Shuuichi startles from his reverie and turns to him, but Seiji is staring at the screen, brow furrowed. Shuuichi glances at the movie, then back to him.

“That’s Matilda, the protagonist’s sister,” Shuuichi says, eventually. Seiji nods, curtly.

Shuuichi watches Seiji, whose frowning attention stays riveted to the screen. He’s taken off the eyepatch and holds it in his lap, thumb occasionally stroking the paper as if soothing an itch.

“Hold on,” Seiji says in a harsh whisper, “Didn’t she say earlier she’d never been to New England?”

Shuuichi realizes, partly in delight, partly in embarrassment, that Seiji is enjoying the movie immensely.

“She did,” Shuuichi confirms. Seiji frowns and glances to him.

“So she could’ve actually been present for the previous murders?”

A smile twitches at Shuuichi’s mouth. “Do you want me to tell you?”

Seiji frowns, “Of course not,” and returns his attention to the movie. He’s enjoying himself. Shuuichi is absurdly, overwhelmingly, delighted.

Seiji’s eyes dart across the screen, lips parted ever so slightly around a softly muttered commentary seemingly only to himself. Occasionally his brow ticks down, or he frowns, or he echoes, silently, Shuuichi’s lines.

Shuuichi feels a curious tightness in his chest. The idea of Seiji enjoying something so mundane as a movie had never occurred to him, proving that Seiji’s cold-front act had worked on him. Seiji likes convenience store snacks, and ramen, and movies. Shuuichi watches a faint frown pull at Seiji’s lips. He wonders what else he likes.

“What’s…” Seiji’s question trails off when he looks to Shuuichi and finds him already staring at him. “You’re not watching,”

Shuuichi smiles wryly, “Well, I do know how it ends,”

Seiji tips his head to the side. “You’re bored?”

Shuuichi feels his smile grow, and he teases, “Not at all. I like the view,”

“Oh?” Seiji replies. Shuuichi feels himself flush and Seiji licks his bottom lip, mouth stretching into a slow smile when Shuuichi’s eyes drop to watch the flicker of his pink tongue.

Shuuichi shifts so he can lay his arm across the back of the couch, tangle his fingers in the hair at the base of Seiji’s skull. “You’re awfully pretty,”

Seiji’s eyes are dark and flinty. “You like to test your luck, hm?”

Shuuichi smiles as heat unfurls in his chest. He tugs a fistful of Seiji’s hair, close to the scalp, and watches Seiji blink several times, his lips parting around a faint exhale, his expression softening. _That easy, huh?_

“I don’t know, you make me feel pretty lucky,” Shuuichi says. Seiji looks one dumb line away from rolling his eyes.

“If you’re not paying attention you can put yourself to better use,” Seiji drawls. Heat pools, heavily, instantly, in Shuuichi’s gut. He feels his face get red. Seiji’s mouth twists into a smirk.

“Did you have something in mind?” Shuuichi asks, hoarsely. Seiji stares at him for a long moment, then one brow hikes up sharply.

Shuuichi slips to the floor embarrassingly fast, his knees thumping on the hardwood as he crawls between Seiji’s knees. He grips Seiji’s hips and yanks them to the edge of the couch. His breath comes fast and loud as he nuzzles into Seiji’s crotch, rubs against his hardening cock. This is incredibly embarrassing but also—

_“My dear, don’t worry I will take care of you,”_ The Shuuichi on screen declares and Seiji snorts softly.

“You’ll take care of me?” He asks, tucking Shuuichi’s fringe behind one ear. A hot lurch in his navel nearly bowls Shuuichi over.

This is also incredibly hot.

“Yes,” he gasps, then slips Seiji’s cock out of his pants and immediately sucks him down. He feels the flex of Seiji’s thighs under his hands, but the other man doesn’t make a sound, his fingers scratch along his scalp just slightly too hard, edging into painful.

Seiji sighs, softly, as his cock swells in Shuuichi’s mouth. He licks messily at him in no particular pattern, licking up his shaft as he swallows him down, withdrawing to lavish attention on his cockhead, teasing with his teeth.

“So handsome, aren’t you?” Seiji murmurs, eyes on the screen. “Has anyone else seen you like this, though? On your knees, trying so hard to please?”

Shuuichi moans around his cock, flushing furiously. Seiji taps his cheek in a reprimand.

“Hush.” He says. His eyes flicker down to Shuuichi and he rubs into Shuuichi’s cheek, feeling the shape of his own cock. Shuuichi’s eyes flutter closed as he focuses very hard on not making a sound. He redoubles his attention to Seiji’s cock, building a steadier rhythm, the bitter taste of precum bright in his mouth, making his head spin.

Seiji slips his hand back up into Shuuichi’s hair, carding lazily through the strands, his attention returning to the TV. Shuuichi keeps his eyes closed, focuses on the feel of Seiji in his mouth, the smell of him so close, the heat of his body and the heat coiling at the base of his own spine.

Seiji squirms, hips twitching up into Shuuichi’s mouth, his breath coming louder. A soft whine escapes him, but when Shuuichi peeks up at his face Seiji’s attention is on the movie. There’s something strangely hot about Seiji watching the Shuuichi onscreen and not him right there, sucking his cock for all he’s worth. It’s aggravating, thinking of that beautiful, composed version of himself onscreen while his sloppy, pathetic self is desperately hard just getting Seiji off.

Should he be embarrassed? Arousal is hot in his veins, burning away shame or hesitation. His thoughts evaporate until all that’s left is a need to make Seiji feel good, to make Seiji come, _fuck_ —Shuuichi makes a pathetic noise and Seiji huffs a breath. Is he giving or receiving? He can’t tell. Whatever Seiji thinks of him, of this, Shuuichi is fine with it, as long as he doesn’t push him away in disgust.

He feels out of control. He feels like he’s won. He feels like he’ll pass out from how hard he is.

“Ah, shit,” Seiji hisses, bucking up into Shuuichi’s mouth. Shuuichi groans around Seiji’s cock and palms his own erection through his pants, desperate to relieve the pressure. Seiji makes a harsh, soft sound, maybe a laugh, and says, “You’re really getting off on this, hm?”

Shuuichi could point out that he’s not the only one around here who gets off on giving blowjobs, but instead he moans his enthusiasm, running his tongue up the bottom of Seiji’s cock. Seiji’s hips rock slightly upwards and Shuuichi does his best to accommodate, dropping his jaw and pressing forwards until he can feel pressure at the back of his throat, swallowing around him until his nose is pressed to Seiji’s groin.

“Fuck,” Seiji hisses and heat throbs, impatient, in Shuuichi’s navel and he moans again, and Seiji makes an urgent, bitten-off sound and yanks Shuuichi back by his hair, pain sparking bright at the back of his head.

Seiji’s cum lands in a warm stripe across his mouth and chin. Shuuichi stares up at him, Seiji glassy-eyed and flushed all down his throat, the twist of scar tissue around his eye startlingly white. Shuuichi dazedly wipes a hand across his face, collecting the semen on his fingers. Seiji grabs Shuuichi’s wrist, stares down at him panting for a moment, then bends to lick a strip of his own cum from his hand.

“ _Seiji_ ,” Shuuichi says, winded.

“Take off your pants,” Seiji says, voice frayed a little at the edge. Shuuichi does as he’s told, stumbling to his feet to shuck them off completely. “Sit on the floor, back to me,”

Shuuichi sits, leaning up against the couch between Seiji’s thighs. Seiji immediately drapes himself over him, hair falling around him in a glossy black curtain.

“You don’t like watching your own movies, hm?” He drawls, his breath hot against Shuuichi’s ear. His hands press down Shuuichi’s chest, smooth over his stomach, “Your own fault for picking such a ridiculous career,”

“Pays well,” Shuuichi gasps out, inanely. Seiji leans further over him, pressing his mouth to Shuuichi’s collarbone, his hands wandering down to his thighs, nails scratching lightly. Shuuichi shivers, then reaches up to grab Seiji’s hair, shoves it all over Seiji’s far shoulder, revealing the milky white skin of his neck. He kisses and licks just under his jaw, sighing as Seiji drags his nails along the insides of his thighs.

Seiji hums, drags his fingers up Shuuichi’s thighs, cups his balls in one hand, wraps the other around his cock. Shuuichi gasps, hips hitching up into his touch.

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” he murmurs, stroking him briskly, “You can manage that much, right?”

Breathing shakily Shuuichi pulls his face out of Seiji’s neck, turns to face forwards. On the TV a perfectly coiffed Shuuichi is standing in front of large bay windows, brow furrowed, one hand pressed over his mouth in thought. His co-star walks into frame, dressed in a frilly confection of a dress, pleasingly matched to the colour palette of Shuuichi’s own clothes. It’s a love scene, Shuuichi remembers the shoot day because it took an extra two hours to set up the lights to compensate for cloud cover.

Shuuichi’s thoughts of light rigs are derailed completely as Seiji twists his hand tightly around his cock. He gasps for air, hips bucking unconsciously, Seiji makes a soft sound in his ear, a huff of amusement.

“Who else sees you like this?” Seiji presses the words close to Shuuichi’s neck, his breath tickling at his skin.

“N-no one,” Shuuichi gasps, “Just you,”

Seiji hums, “No one else knows how pathetic you are, then?”

Shuuichi makes a mangled sound, nowhere near speech, as Seiji rolls his balls between his fingers, flicks at the underside of his cockhead with his thumbnail.

“Don’t worry, it can be our little secret,” Seiji’s breath presses, hot against his throat and then his mouth closes over his pulse, biting down hard. Shuuichi jolts, moaning loudly, trying to press into Seiji’s touch everywhere at once.

Onscreen, Shuuichi tips up his co-star’s face, smiling sweetly at her. She places one hand on his chest, eyes sliding shut, and Shuuichi leans down to kiss her. Seiji makes a low, needy sound that goes straight to Shuuichi’s dick. His hand tightens around his cock as they both watch Shuuichi and his co-star passionately kiss.

“Fuck,” Seiji rasps in his ear, Shuuichi shivers violently in response.

“You like that?” Shuuichi pants. He finds it a bit weird to watch himself like this, but Seiji’s breath comes harder against his shoulder. “You know, my next movie’s gonna have a sex scene,”

Seiji makes a wounded noise, swirls his thumb around the leaking head of Shuuichi’s cock, then strokes him hard and fast. Heat coils, irrepressibly, inside Shuuichi, his thighs beginning to shake as he spreads them further apart. Seiji snorts against his shoulder.

“So shameless,” He chides, “Imagine what your adoring fans would say,”

“Don’t care,” Shuuichi gasps, heat pulsing between his legs. “Only for you,”

Seiji hisses, “Good.”

The possessive heat in Seiji’s voice, a final twist of his wrist, has Shuuichi climaxing with a half-smothered shout, hips jerking unsteadily up into his hand. Seiji strokes him through his orgasm, the tight coil in his abdomen diffusing into a liquid heat that melts his body. Shuuichi tips his head back against Seiji’s chest, his breath coming in heavy gasps. Seiji wipes his hand clean on Shuuichi’s shirt, who’s too blissed out to complain.

Seiji runs his now mostly-clean hand through Shuuichi’s hair, fingers combing through the strands, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Shuuichi sighs as Seiji’s touch oozes down his spine, relaxing him further.

“You’re so out of it after you come,” Seiji says, amusement evident in his voice, “I could probably do anything I wanted to you right now,”

“Mm. Could do that any time,” Shuuichi says, sleepily, “But feel free,”

Seiji is silent for so long Shuuichi begins to dip into sleep, the darkness behind his eyelids calling to him soothingly.

“Unbelievable,” Seiji mutters, under his breath.

“See you next week?” Shuuichi asks, impulsively at the door. Seiji pauses a moment, considering.

“I suppose I could free up one night, depending when,” he says, coolly, but there’s a sly smile curling the corners of his mouth. Shuuichi flips rapidly through the scattered Rolodex of his mind.

“I’m free Thursday,” he says. And Friday, but he doesn’t want to seem too desperate.

“Alright. Thursday evening, then,” Seiji agrees, “Goodnight,”

-

Seiji, when he slips into Shuuichi’s apartment, is even more sallow-skinned than usual, a distinct redness ringing his nose and eyes. There’s a lethargic slump to his shoulders as he follows Shuuichi into the main area.

“Are you sick?” Shuuichi asks, putting the kettle on for tea out of pure instinct. Seiji glowers at him.

“No,” he says, thickly. He’s wearing trackpants and a large hooded sweatshirt that swallow up his body, both in over-washed black. His hair is knotted at the base of his neck in a greasy bun, his fringe tucked haphazardly behind his ear. 

He looks, objectively, like shit. Shuuichi’s mouth waters, anyway, even as his stomach cramps with concern.

“Your hair’s different,” Shuuichi says, as neutrally as possible. Seiji sniffs noisily, ignoring Shuuichi’s fiddling in the kitchen in favour of slumping onto the couch.

“It gets in the way,” he says, flatly. Shuuichi digs out a jar of honey from the back of a cupboard and pours a liberal amount into a mug of steaming tea.

He thinks it means something that Seiji came over like he said he would, even sick, though he’s not sure what. It’s entirely possible he just sticks stubbornly to what’s in his calendar.

“It’s a bad virus going around this year,” Shuuichi says, sympathetically, as he walks towards the couch. Seiji frowns as he accepts the mug of tea.

“So I’ve heard,” he says, as loftily as he can manage through his stuffed nose.

“Look, I’ve got decongestant,” Shuuichi says, “I’ll just—"

“I didn’t come here for your—your…” Seiji interrupts himself with a noise of disgust, “Whatever.”

Shuuichi thinks, but knows better than to say, _You’re exhausted, aren’t you?_ And from what? Shuuichi isn’t sure he wants to know. He settles on the couch, right next to Seiji, and leans in. Seiji immediately tips his head up to catch his lips with his own.

Seiji’s mouth is hot from the tea to match the heat unfurling in Shuuichi’s chest at the easy way Seiji meets him, lips moving against his lazily. He can hear Seiji struggle to breathe through his stuffed nose and resists, barely, the impulse to smile in petty satisfaction and licks greedily into him.

Eventually, Seiji breaks the kiss with a gasp, sucking air in through his mouth, flushed pink. Shuuichi can’t help but smirk. Seiji glares and then sniffs, undermining the effectiveness of his expression. The heat in Shuuichi’s chest overcomes him, but it’s a soft heat, a gentle instinct that has him touching a hand to Seiji’s forehead to check for a fever.

Seiji jerks away from his touch, all but literally rolling his eyes. He’s still holding the mug, and he brings it up to his lips, inhales the steam.

“Can I try something?” Shuuichi asks, before he’s really thought it through.

Seiji blows out a sigh across his tea, rippling the surface. “Sure,”

Shuuichi gets up and moves to stand behind Seiji, the couch a low wall between them. Carefully, he picks at the knotted up elastic in Seiji’s hair until it’s freed to pool along the back of the couch. Seiji sighs softly as Shuuichi begins to gently rake his fingers through the tangled strands.

He runs his hand along Seiji’s forehead, hooks a finger questioningly under the eyepatch. Seiji grunts, his own hand coming up to cover Shuuichi’s. They stay like that for a long moment, frozen in a bizarre tableau, Shuuichi’s unvoiced question heavy in the air. Then Seiji knocks Shuuichi’s hand away and unfastens the eyepatch, peels it off his face and lays it to the side.

Some unnamed emotion swells in Shuuichi’s chest and for a moment he feels as though he could burst into tears. And over what, exactly? He finishes combing out the tangles in Seiji’s hair, not trusting himself to speak.

He’s only practiced on Mia’s hair but Seiji’s long, dirty hair cooperates better than Mia’s shorter, glossy locks. _Patience_ , he reminds himself as he sorts the shorter hair at Seiji’s brow into three chunks. He weaves the pieces together, carefully picking up new strands, balancing the rest in his fingers. Seiji makes a soft sound.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, his voice pleasingly rounded out around the edges. Shuuichi debates answering for a long moment.

“Braiding,” he says, simply. Seiji’s brows tip down, slightly, but his eyes stay closed. For a while Shuuichi works silently, the only noise the huffs of Seiji’s breath, the whisper of his hair.

He’s quietly, earth-shakingly, shocked that Seiji is letting him do this at all. He feels like he took a leap when he kissed Seiji outside the 7-Eleven and only just now realized how far the fall was.

“Why are you doing this?” Seiji asks, quietly. The tone of his voice is unfamiliar and it gives Shuuichi pause. Seiji’s shoulders are relaxed, his head tipped back slightly by the pull of Shuuichi’s hands, revealing a faint pink touch to his cheekbones but no other clues to his expression.

Shuuichi carefully pulls another section of hair into the braid and holds it taught. He thinks about telling his agent what he wanted and getting it, easy as that. He thinks of when he asked Seiji to stay and he did. He’ll never get what he wants without honesty.

“I want to take care of you,”

“No you don’t,” Seiji replies immediately, almost reflexively, “It’s rotten work,”

“Not for me,” Shuuichi’s chest feels tight with the press of the truth up his throat, “Not to me,”

“Why?” Seiji tips his head back further so he can catch Shuuichi in the outside edge of his glare. Shuuichi holds the braid tight so his hands won’t shake.

“Because I want to do it. I don’t care if you’re mean, or nasty, or difficult,” Shuuichi forces a weak smile, “Don’t tell me you want me to pleasant,”

“Never,” Seiji snaps. The answer sends a warm trickle down Shuuichi’s chest.

“Then you understand me,”

Seiji pulls away and turns, the threads of his braid fraying as they’re yanked from Shuuichi’s hands. He stares up at him, his mouth working silently. His eye darts across Shuuichi’s face, calculating.

“I won’t thank you for it,” he says, eventually, his voice even.

“I know,” Shuuichi replies. That seems to startle Seiji, who blinks up at him, lips parting silently. Shuuichi can feel a smile work its way onto his own lips at the sight.

Seiji settles back against the couch, a faint furrow between his brows. “I don’t know that I’ll ever understand you,”

Shuuichi hums, gathering back up the loose strands of the braid. He doesn’t argue the point. Let Seiji think there’s more to it than what’s painfully obvious.

He focuses on the braid, the task easing back the noise in his head until it’s only the gentle quiet between them. He has to double-back a couple times, gathering strands he missed, but eventually all of Seiji’s hair is gathered into an uneven snarl down his head, trailing off into a braided tail over the back of the couch.

Shuuichi tugs, gently, where he’s re-knotted the elastic at the end of the braid, and Seiji’s head tips back against the couch. His eyes are closed, his lips parted around slow, thick breaths, his cheeks dusted pink.

He leans over and presses his mouth to Seiji’s forehead. “You’re cute,” he says. He can feel the furrow of Seiji’s brow.

“Excuse me?” he snaps, tired. Shuuichi draws his fingers along the shape of his braid, smooths down his tense neck.

“I said what I said,” he replies. “Let’s get you into bed,”

“You don’t—”

“I want to,” Shuuichi cuts him off, bending over to nuzzle down into his neck and press a kiss to his pulse, “Humour me, okay? I’ll make it up to you later,”

Seiji sniffs and then again, wetly, and Shuuichi thinks _ew_ , with an embarrassing fondness. “Fine.”

Shuuichi does his best not to fuss, really. While Seiji is in the bathroom, he sets up the humidifier and places a large glass of water and blister pack of cold medicine on one side of the bed. He turns up the heat a little and finds a throw to cover the foot of the bed. Seiji emerges from the bathroom while Shuuichi is rummaging in his bedside table for vapour-rub and shoots him a withering glare.

Shuuichi affects an innocent expression. Seiji glares harder.

Seiji’s left his track pants and eyepatch in the bathroom. In just his sweater and boxer-briefs, hair pulled off his face and tucked into a braid, he looks bizarrely vulnerable and soft. Shuuichi’s heart thrums.

Seiji flops onto the bed on his back with a sigh and Shuuichi immediately clambers on top of him, framing his hips with his thighs.

“Here,” he says, unscrewing the tub of vapour-rub, instantly filling the air with the potent smell of menthol, “Let me…”

He shoves Seiji’s sweater up under his armpits and begins to smear the menthol paste onto his chest. Seiji huffs and squirms, one hand closing around Shuuichi’s wrist.

“You’re fussing,” he says, reproachfully. His brows are pinched down, nose red, a faint flush in his cheeks. He looks disgruntled and horribly, irresistibly, _cute_. Seiji must see something in his expression because his scowl deepens.

Shuuichi smears the leftover vapour-rub under Seiji’s nose then kisses him. He smells like menthol and tastes like Shuuichi’s toothpaste. His chest balloons with a feeling so intense it’s painful.

Seiji breaks the kiss with a small huff. “You’re hard,” he drawls.

Shuuichi hums with a smile and rolls off of him, stands to turn off the light. Before he flicks the switch he catches Seiji’s dark eyes on him, attentive, pinched at the corners as if Shuuichi’s a puzzle he’s not quite figured out.

He crawls back into bed in the dark, lays on his side facing Seiji. “‘Night,”

There’s a long silence, filled with the soft hum of the humidifier and the thickness of Seiji’s breath. Then Shuuichi feels the touch, ever so light, of Seiji’s hand on his own.


	3. spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You _shot_ me,”
> 
> “We need to get you to the hospital,”
> 
> “You _think?"_

Winter clings, stubborn, well into March. The sky hangs low and grey, threatening snow and delivering, day after day, cold, slushy rain. The wine bar they’re in is a cozy reprieve from the cold; dimly lit, done up in leather and hardwood, the bar beneath their elbows polished to a shine. A fat candle throws shivering shadows across Seiji’s face, illuminates a high flush on his cheeks from the drink.

Seiji’s wearing a black suit, the jacket discarded over the back of his stool, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Shuuichi can hardly breathe from how beautiful he looks.

“Why so long these days?” Seiji drawls, reaching out a hand to brush the ends of Shuuichi’s hair, hanging nearly to his chin. Shuuichi feels himself flush.

“It’s—I was asked to grow it out, for a role this summer,” Shuuichi says. Seiji hums, retracting his hand. “Do you like it?”

Seiji just cocks his brow and sips his wine.

The night he stayed over with a cold, Seiji slipped out before Shuuichi woke, but took with him the blister pack of medicine. Since then, they’ve begun seeing each other in something approaching regularity; Seiji will call when he’ll be in town and Shuuichi will meet him for coffee, or, when Seiji’s mysterious schedule allows, over to his to fuck.

Just the week before, Shuuichi got Seiji bent over the bed, made him come on his fingers. Afterwards, Seiji had growled, “I wanted you to fuck me,” even as he combed gently through Shuuichi’s hair, his touch a confusing counterpoint to his voice.

Shuuichi has found it hard to think of anything else since.

Seiji swirls his red wine, peers down into his glass as if considering ordering another. Shuuichi is well aware that he’s one glass away from the end of all rational thought. He glances towards the menu at his elbow, anyway.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says. His heart jolts at the sound of his name on Seiji’s lips. His hair falls into his eyes as he turns to look at him and, impatiently, he flicks it away. His face is hot from the drink, his pulse harried under his jaw. Seiji watches the lizard pick it’s way across his left cheek, his eye sharp.

Seiji looks _so good_ in his suit, the pants closely hewing to the line of his slender legs, his collar open to a slice of pale skin at the base of his throat, his sleeves rolled back to reveal the subtle strength of his arms. The candlelight softens the lines of his face, exaggerates the shadow of his eyepatch, dances playfully across his lips, stained red by his wine.

“Can I kiss you?” Shuuichi hears himself ask. Seiji blinks at him, then smirks.

“I’m beginning to think you only care about one thing,”

“I care a lot—about a lot,” Shuuichi stammers out. Seiji’s expression shifts, opens up into a mild kind of surprise.

“Alright, I suppose,” he says, as if he’s doing Shuuichi a favour. He is, so Shuuichi doesn’t press it. He cups Seiji’s cheek, his skin warm and soft, and Seiji looks at him with that mild surprise still softening his face. Shuuichi tips in and presses their mouths together, gently.

Seiji’s lips are soft and warm and responsive, move against him sweetly, taste of wine. When Shuuichi withdraws Seiji’s eye stays closed a beat longer. He touches his fingers to his lips, as if to savour the taste, then his eye flickers open. Shuuichi’s heart is in his throat, the taste of blood thick in his mouth.

“A powerful youkai is stirring near one of the Matoba estates,” Seiji says, abruptly, “Will you help deal with it?”

“W-what?” Shuuichi startles, forcing his brain to switch gears violently.

“It has been difficult to locate,” Seiji continues, as if he hasn’t spoken, “I’ll be going back up this weekend,”

“You want me to go with you?” Shuuichi asks.

Seiji looks at him, amused and exasperated, “Yes, that is what I said,”

 _Don’t underestimate me_ , Shuuichi had said. Was it an act of vulnerability to ask for help, or was it a test? Seiji is still looking at him with a faint smile, a high blush on his cheeks. The candlelight licks at the hollow of his throat, revealed by his unbuttoned collar.

“Alright, yeah—I’ll have to reschedule some things but—I’ll be there, yes,” Shuuichi says. Seiji’s smile grows, his eye crinkling, and Shuuichi’s heart stops.

-

It’s a long, quiet drive up into the country. Seiji reviews some paperwork while Shuuichi studies his lines for _A New Years Kiss_ , mouthing silently to the blur of grey sky out the window.

It’s a different estate than the one they spent a summer together in, and for that Shuuichi is endlessly grateful. They dump their overnight bags in a room and bolt down soup that the caretaker prepared for their arrival.

“Its presence seems to be diffused across the mountain, so it’s been difficult to pinpoint,” Seiji is telling him, between slurps, “Based on research we did on the area, I believe it’s an ancient spirit that was sealed inside the mountain,”

“Is it malicious?” Shuuichi asks. Seiji’s brow bends down and he frowns, as if Shuuichi has asked something stupid, or irrelevant.

“It’s early, yet,” is all he says in reply.

Seiji sends his shiki out ahead and they bundle back up to walk the mountainside. It’s unseasonably cold, the ground still hard and frostbitten, only the bravest of trees have begun to sprout buds. The mountainside is riddled with holes, often so small the worst they can do is twist an ankle, but a few large enough a person could fall into the wet caverns below. They pick their way carefully across slippery rock, moving east-west, following the dimming sunlight.

It’s a slow afternoon, and quickly becomes very boring. Just as the sun dips towards the horizon it starts to snow. A wet, cloying snow that’s closer to rain for all it lands, freezing, on the back of Shuuichi’s neck. Seiji makes a noise of disgust. Shuuichi smiles at him, from behind the safety of his scarf.

It’s so nostalgic, wandering the forest in search of a spirit, Seiji’s collapsible bow thudding softly against the backs of his thighs. The past feels close enough to touch. _Just kiss him, already,_ Shuuichi thinks at his teenaged self. He’s already looking forward to getting Seiji out of the cold and into their futon.

By the time they make their way back to the estate it’s pitch-black and they’re both sodden and cold, Seiji grumbling softly to himself below his breath. In the genkan they strip out of their soaked outer layers and Shuuichi tries to rub sensation back into his hands.

“We’ll have dinner in my rooms,” Seiji says to the caretaker, then to Shuuichi; “Come on,”

He leads the way down one of the halls, his hair sticking to his temples in wet strings, his cheeks still flushed from the cold. Shuuichi follows on socked feet, thinking a little of how oppressive and simultaneously elusive the spirit’s presence had been, and a lot about the drip of water down Seiji’s neck.

“If you just wanted a romantic countryside getaway you could’ve said,” Shuuichi says. Seiji makes a loud noise, caught between a snort and a choke, as if he’s holding back laughter. Shuuichi remembers how he’d laugh in high school, cold and sharp. He kind of really, really wants to hear Seiji laugh again, even if it’s at his expense.

And Seiji turns to look at him and he’s honest to god grinning, his visible eye crinkling, that familiar mean edge to the expression. Shuuichi’s heart burns up inside him. Then Seiji’s gaze focuses behind Shuuichi and the smile is quickly flipped into a frown.

“Seiji-san?” A voice calls abruptly. Shuuichi turns back to see a girl in a school uniform standing in the front hall, dark hair piled in thick braids around her head. “Who’s this?”

Seiji sighs. “You go on ahead,” he says to Shuuichi, then strides forward to take the girl by the arm. As he frog-marches her away, Shuuichi catches what sounds like the beginning of a lecture, as Seiji says, “I told you it’s too dangerous…”

Shuuichi watches their retreat down the hall for a moment before continuing on. Seiji’s secrets are rarely pleasant; Shuuichi won’t pry where he’s not wanted.

He digs out a towel from the bathroom to dry off his hair then flops down onto the futon. His knees ache. He must be getting too old for exploratory mountain climbs. He can feel the lizard huddled up on his left ribs, as if trying to escape the cold.

The door slides open abruptly, revealing Seiji balancing a tray laden with food. Shuuichi startles to his feet and moves to take it from him. Seiji has ditched his damp haori and has a towel around his shoulders instead, turning dark where his hair soaks it.

Their fingers overlap as Shuuichi takes the tray. “Thanks,” his voice cracks, dry. Seiji hums, distractedly, and follows him to the low table.

The food is good and, even more importantly, warm. Soup, rice, pickles, fat wedges of fried tofu and a generous slab of salmon restore Shuuichi’s aching body. They eat in a soft silence, Seiji focused inwards, frowning as he chews. Despite himself, Shuuichi wonders about the girl. _It’s too dangerous_ … Seiji has never been one to express concern for others. Shuuichi’s heartbeat flutters in his chest.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Seiji says, as he stacks their empty dishes back onto the tray. There’s a playful edge to his usual smile. “For your assistance,”

“I suppose you should,” Shuuichi echoes, flopping backwards onto the futon. Seiji slides open the door and leaves the tray in the hall then turns and looks down at him. Shuuichi’s breath catches in his throat.

Seiji always carries himself with a proud grace, his posture a reminder of his power even in sweatpants. But here, with the old estate sprawled out around him, the clean lines of his yukata drawing out the arc of his movements, he looks otherworldly. He looks powerful.

And maybe it is a vulnerability, after all, to bring Shuuichi here, to boil to the surface all the parts of Seiji he once loathed so acutely.

“Matoba Seiji,” Shuuichi murmurs. Seiji’s expression flickers, unfathomable. “Will you come here, please?”

Seiji looks at him for a beat longer, then walks back over, kneels at his side, an ambiguous smile tugging at his mouth.

“Closer?” Shuuichi asks, softly. Seiji leans in and Shuuichi threads his fingers in the strands of his hair that’ve escaped their tie. He takes in Seiji’s pale face, his lips a little chapped from the cold, his eyes weighed down by bruise-like marks, hooked from the inner corners like commas. His eyepatch has dried in crumpled lines, revealing a slice of his face, of his right eye, otherwise concealed.

The air feels thick between them. Seiji’s still smiling in that strange way, that Shuuichi doesn’t know how to read. Shuuichi tugs lightly at his hair.

“Closer,” His voice comes out barely above a whisper. Seiji leans down over him. As Shuuichi cranes upwards, he catches a glimpse of Seiji’s eye falling closed, just before he does the same.

Seiji’s lips are cool but move warmly against his. A small noise escapes him as Shuuichi licks inside his mouth, making his blood pound, a greedy desire flooding his veins. He feels an urge, bizarre but powerful, to consume Seiji, to fold him up small inside his ribcage, to keep him impossibly close.

His hands are shaking. He tugs Seiji closer by his hair, a bottomless pit of _wanting_ opening inside his chest. Seiji wraps his hands around Shuuichi’s throat and he flinches away, hissing.

“Your fingers are ice cold!” He says, gripping them in his own. It’s like holding ten icicles. The spell is broken; Seiji looks at him in his ordinary, bland way, and Shuuichi can breathe again.

“Yes,” Seiji says, impassively. Shuuichi runs his hands up Seiji’s arms.

“You’re that cold?” Seiji’s response is a flat look. “How about I run a bath,”

Seiji is quiet for an extra beat, then says, “Alright,” as though he’s doing Shuuichi a favour.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes until he’s out of sight, Shuuichi climbs back to his feet and heads into the bathroom. As the water runs, licks of steam curling in the air, he hunts in the cupboards for soaps to dump in which fill the air with a gentle sweetness.

“Bath’s ready,” he calls out into the main room, then strips out of his clothes and slips into the tub. The water is scalding against his numbed skin and he can’t help a hiss as it closes over his body, a hot embrace.

Seiji appears in the doorway, and frowns. “You’re in the way,” he says, flatly.

Shuuichi leans back, dropping his legs open, and pats on the inside of one thigh. “C’mere,”

Seiji gives him a wonderful look. Mostly annoyed, partly resigned, and with an unfamiliar pinch to his eyes, like a hidden smile. He slips out of his yukata slowly, giving Shuuichi plenty of time to admire the pale skin revealed, and hangs it primly on the towel rail.

Shuuichi’s chest goes tight, a brightness blooming between his ribs, as Seiji steps into the tub and settles between his parted legs, head dropping back on his shoulder. Seiji sighs, softly, his hair spiderwebbing across the water’s surface. Shuuichi presses his cheek to the top of Seiji’s head and takes a deep breath, his lungs filling with steam and the crisp smell of soap, the soft sweet smell of Seiji’s hair.

“You… you’re very tactile,” Seiji remarks, blandly. Shuuichi hums, trailing one hand through the water, stirring up the black strands of Seiji’s hair. The lizard crawls its way down his right arm, twirls around his wrist.

“ _You_ don’t seem to mind,” Shuuichi says. He feels Seiji’s body tense up and flattens his hand to Seiji’s sternum before he can heave himself out of the water. Seiji’s breath huffs out as he makes a small noise that shoots straight to Shuuichi’s dick.

“I wasn’t—it’s not _bad_ ,” Shuuichi says against Seiji’s hair, “I’m glad you like it,”

“Tolerate it, more like,” Seiji says, annoyed. Shuuichi lifts his hand from Seiji’s chest and he squirms, slightly. Sparks fly up Shuuichi’s spine from the friction against his erection. He dips his chin so his mouth is close to Seiji’s ear.

“That’s more than enough,” he tells him, cheerfully, drifting his fingers along Seiji’s sternum, “But if there’s something you’d like, I’d be happy to oblige,”

“Why is it always this with you?” Seiji sighs then cranes his head, Shuuichi tilts his, and their lips meet. Seiji licks immediately into his mouth, his tongue warm and impatient. An eager noise escapes Shuuichi’s throat and he can feel the press of Seiji’s smile before he pulls away with a final suck to Shuuichi’s bottom lip.

“I’m tired. This is enough,” Seiji announces, dropping his head back onto Shuuichi’s shoulder. Shuuichi runs a hand up his chest, watches the faint rise of goosebumps in his wake. He muffles his grin in Seiji’s hair, giddy that Seiji just wants to cuddle.

They stay in the tub until the steam has drained from the air, the water has turned lukewarm against their bodies, and Shuuichi’s fingers are well and truly pruned. Then they stay a little longer.

The next day, in true Natsume style, Shuuichi finds the youkai by tripping and falling right on top of it.

He misses his footing trying to skirt a small pothole and instead skids down the slope and falls through a much larger hole. He lands in a small, moist cave, the wind knocked out of him. He lays there, gasping on the cold ground, and as his eyes adjust to the dark a gigantic figure takes shape.

“Are you alright?” Seiji calls down. Shuuichi looks up to see him peering down the hole in the cave’s ceiling and wheezes. “Fine, I’ll come down,”

Seiji disappears from sight. Shuuichi sits up slowly, his head throbbing, damp hair all in his eyes, and takes in the spirit in front of him.

It’s truly massive, only half its head visible where it’s tucked into the rock, and that alone is easily twice Shuuichi’s height. Its skin seems to be scale, pale even in the gloom, and a large, closed eye fans thick lashes below which sprout whiskers not unlike a cat’s. A horn more than seven feet long spears into the ceiling of the cave, where rock has fallen to obscure its full length. Sigils are carved into the rock encircling the head, so faded and faint Shuuichi at first thinks he’s imagining them. Both the spirit and the seal must be truly ancient.

There’s a scuffling noise from the opposite end of the cave, and then several stones break loose of the wall and tumble down, letting in meek fingers of sunlight. Several of Seiji’s amorphous shiki squeeze through, rolling or pulling more rock out of the way until there’s something almost like a doorway out onto the mountainside.

Seiji picks his way carefully through and peers first at the massive spirit, then at Shuuichi.

“Well, you found it,” he drawls, coming to stand over Shuuichi. He leans down and carefully tucks Shuuichi’s fringe behind his ear. Shuuichi is once more breathless, for an entirely different reason.

“It must be under nearly a quarter of this side of the mountain,” Seiji mutters, straightening to look at the slumbering beast. He frowns over his shoulder at his shiki and makes a flicking motion, sending them running for the hills.

“What happens now?” Shuuichi asks, from the damp ground. Part of him was convinced they’d never find the spirit, or maybe was hoping they wouldn’t. A small, cold pit opens up in his stomach as he eases himself slowly to his feet.

“We exorcise it,” Seiji says, impatiently, pacing across the width of the cave, his bow softly tapping his legs to punctuate his steps. Shuuichi runs a hand over the back of his head, checking for a bump, or blood.

“We could re-seal it, instead,” Shuuichi says. Seiji frowns at him, exasperated.

“Why should we bother?” He demands. Shuuichi sighs, lets his hand drop. His head hurts something awful, he’s cold and damp. He has no horse in this race, but still he says,

“Maybe because there’s a story here we don’t know,” with a tired resignation. He knows how this goes; Seiji will refuse him because to agree would show weakness, and Shuuichi will struggle to forgive him for it. It’s replay on an old argument; Seiji set in his family’s ways, Shuuichi determined to go the hard way. Their paths have always been different.

“Alright, fine,” Seiji says, suddenly, shaking Shuuichi from his reverie.

“What?”

“I said fine. We’ll do it your way,” Seiji says, as if it’s easy. As if it’s obvious. Shuuichi stares at him and he stares back, red-nosed and damp, with no particular expression at all.

Seiji turns away and crouches to inspect the ancient sealing circle. It’s so large and faded it’s hard to make out in the gloom, probably more than fifteen feet in diameter.

“We could refresh the old seal relatively easily, only—” Seiji points upwards, to where the topmost edge is concealed by stalactites and shadow. Shuuichi cranes his head to see.

“How’d they even get up there?” He wonders aloud. Seiji shrugs and stands, dusting off his hands. His gaze is turned inwards, calculating. Shuuichi finds himself holding his breath.

Seiji turns to him, “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” Shuuichi answers readily. Seiji looks at him, brow raised. “Not the answer you were expecting?”

Seiji’s expression shifts strangely, like he’s having some inner struggle. He looks as though he wants to ask _why?_ What he drawls instead, is, “Since when?”

“Does it matter?” Shuuichi replies, “I do now.”

Seiji tells him the plan in a terse, clipped tone: he’ll place talismans at the bottom three points as usual, and then affix the final one to an arrow he’ll shoot into the fourth position. Shuuichi will stand in the circle to focus the energy.

Shuuichi must admit it’s fair that Seiji asked for his trust. Letting Seiji aim his bow at him is not something he’d consider letting him do at seventeen, at twenty-six.

But he’s older now and he must be different, they must be, or at least he has to believe that they are.

Shuuichi stands in the circle, right in front of the slumbering spirit, and when he calls to the paper talismans they call back. He feels the slow gather of his power, hastened by the sudden surge of Seiji’s. The air thickens between them, their voices droning on as something, not quite a breeze but almost, brushes Shuuichi’s face. He feels the youkai at his back stir, ever so slightly.

They’ve done workings together before—in high school, certainly, and on a few dire occasions since, though Shuuichi’s always tried to avoid it. There’s something so unbearably vulnerable about opening up to let Seiji’s power mix with his, like if he’s not careful he’ll lodge under Shuuichi’s ribs permanently.

He finds he’s not so afraid of that, now.

Seiji stands several metres back, outside the cave on the mountain slope, to have enough clearance to aim. He loads his bow with an arrow pierced through a talisman, sights along its length.

Shuuichi’s voice falters, a moment, at the expression on Seiji’s face, the delicate precision of his hands. He fires the arrow with a sharp _twang_ that cuts through the rising false wind. A small scattering of rock tumbles down.

Seiji’s power tugs his along, winding their energies together before allowing them to flow back through Shuuichi and into the seal. His body flares hot and cold at the rush of power through it, both the familiar heat of his own and the slightly alien texture of Seiji’s. Despite its age, or maybe because of it, the seal drinks up their power greedily. The time-worn sigils flare bright and the presence of the spirit at Shuuichi’s back fades, then seems to almost vanish. There’s a roaring in his ears as the last trails of energy leave his body. For a moment his vision bleeds grey. He smiles down at Seiji, all the same, relieved the seal worked.

Seiji looks up at him, dark eye bright, ink dancing across his eyepatch, and notches a second talisman arrow.

Shuuichi hears the _twang_ of the bow, then feels a strange heat in his leg before it gives out. He topples dizzily backwards, knocking his head, a second time, against rock.

He lays flat on his back for what feels like a very long time, once more gasping for air. Pain pounds in his head, cold aches thrilling through him as the pool of his spiritual energy is scraped dry. Once he has breath in his lungs, he shakily props himself up on his elbows and sees red—lots and lots of—

“You _shot_ me!” Shuuichi exclaims, partly in disbelief, partly in offense. Seiji kneels down next to him, setting his bow aside, frowning in concentration. Calmly, he slips out of his jacket and piles it on Shuuichi’s thigh, plants both hands on top of it and presses down hard.

“You— _ow_ —that—” Shuuichi cuts himself off with a wheeze as the world spins woozily around him.

“Call your shiki, we need to get you down the mountain,” Seiji says, coolly.

“Because you _shot_ me,” Shuuichi repeats, positive Seiji hadn’t understood him the first time. Seiji favours him with a flat look.

“We need to get you to the hospital,”

“You _think_?”

“Call them.”

Shuuichi takes a steadying breath. Pain throbs in his leg, in his lungs as they grasp at air out of reach. His head pounds, vision fogging at the edges. His shiki are going to make this a bigger deal than it is, but it’s not like Seiji’s shiki understand gentleness.

“Urihime. Sasago. Hiiragi.”

There’s a moment of thick silence, and then three figures burst from thin air, voices clamouring, hands hovering over his body that Shuuichi weakly bats off.

“It’s okay, I’m okay—” he says and is completely ignored.

His shiki figure out a six-armed carry that is awful for a variety of reasons but most pressingly for the way his leg is occasionally jostled, sending unendurable spikes of pain through his body and hot drips of blood down his thigh.

The trip down the mountain blurs into a smear of colour across his tired eyes, jolts of red-hot pain, and a sense of constant, humming anxiety from his shiki. He loses track of Seiji until he’s being delicately lowered to the floor of the estate’s genkan where suddenly he swims into sight, peering down at him.

“The dispatch wants you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten,” he says. Shuuichi stares woozily up at him.

“What?”

Seiji turns partly away, holding a phone to his ear, “He says six,”

Then paramedics are unwrapping Seiji’s makeshift jacket bandage and applying gauze to a muddled red mess that turns out to be Shuuichi’s thigh. His head spins as his stomach rolls, threatening to upend itself.

“Look at me, please,” One of them says, shining a penlight into Shuuichi’s eyes, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He shot me,” Shuuichi says, plaintively.

“Shot—?”

“With a bow and arrow,” Seiji interjects, blandly, “A simple lover’s quarrel.”

Shuuichi blinks up at him. “Lovers?” He echoes, breathlessly.

Seiji’s face caterwauls between several distinct expressions before landing on exasperation.

“Right.” The paramedic says, a faint crinkle to their brow. Shuuichi catches them exchanging blank looks with their partner. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“March… twentieth?”

“Your name, please,”

“Natori Shuuichi,”

The paramedics exchange another pair of carefully blank looks.

“How old are you, Natori?”

“Twenty-nine,”

“And wiggle your toes for me, please. Great. We’re going to have to lift you onto the stretcher. It might be a little uncomfortable. I’m going to count it down, okay?”

Shuuichi takes a breath and nods. The paramedics lay the stretcher next to him then position themselves one behind Shuuichi, the other at his feet. The one behind him counts down breezily from three and Shuuichi promptly passes out.

He swims back to consciousness in the ambulance, swaying gently as they hurtle down country roads. Seiji is perched next to the stretcher, looking bored. Over his shoulder, all three of Shuuichi’s shiki are crammed into the ambulance. It’s an image he’ll find funny later.

“Can’t believe you shot me,” Shuuichi mutters and Seiji startles to attention, blinking down at him.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he admonishes. Shuuichi glares at him. Seiji looks down at him with an unfamiliar expression, his eye dark and flinty, his mouth soft.

“This better make us even,” he says. Seiji hums noncommittally but his hand finds Shuuichi’s on the stretcher, loosely threading their fingers together.

Shuuichi’s administered painkillers upon arrival at the hospital, which mangle completely his sense of time. A plump nurse attaches an IV to his arm and cheerfully strips him of his pants with little regard to his dignity. An ER doctor, with bags under her eyes to rival Seiji’s, stitches up the wound and prescribes him a run of antibiotics.

He’s advised to rest for a few days, avoid bright lights and straining his eyes, in order to not exacerbate his mild concussion. The doctor also recommends an iron supplement to help replace lost blood. All this Shuuichi will glean later from a detailed note in Seiji’s hand. In the moment he can barely perceive the figure at the end of his cot. The nurse comes by again after to change out his IV bag and pat his hand consolingly.

Seiji is there the whole time. There’s nowhere to sit, so he stands over Shuuichi’s bed like some kind of vengeful ghost, arms crossed and eye sharp on any and all medical practitioners who approach. The painkillers numb Shuuichi’s tongue and fill his head up with cotton, effectively cutting off any attempts at conversation. He dips in and out of a light sleep, staring up at the flicker of fluorescent lights across the planes of Seiji’s face.

He’s discharged in the early hours of morning. The hospital insists on rolling him out in a wheelchair, which is probably for the best, as he has to lean heavily on Seiji to make it to the car. The drive seems to last hours and yet, no time at all. His head knocks against the window as he dozes, his body tired and aching. Seiji helps him into the estate and to his room with an arm around his waist, his breath huffing as Shuuichi tilts his head sleepily into his shoulder.

Shuuichi strips down to his underwear and then clumsily yanks off all of Seiji’s clothes, ignoring his waspish, half-hearted complaints. That done, he grabs Seiji’s face with both hands and kisses him. Seiji yields to it immediately, and despite the exhaustion and the nausea and the pain, Shuuichi’s body thrums electric in response.

“Seiji,” he says, instead of everything else. Seiji looks at him, an almost-smile crinkling his eye. Shuuichi slips a hand under the eyepatch and shoves it off, reveals the twisted scar tissue around his right eye. He looks at him and thinks that he really sees him, but then he’s asleep.

He wakes, once, to a shooting pain in his leg where Seiji’s knee is digging into his stitched-up wound. He rolls Seiji over and slots their bodies together, back to front, his knees tucked in behind Seiji’s. Despite the pain he’s back asleep in moments.

-

In the morning, Shuuichi wakes slowly, his body stiff, his mouth dry. For a long moment, as he claws his way to consciousness, he remembers none of the night before. It comes back piecemeal: the youkai; the hospital; the sense of surety, looking at Seiji, that he really knew him.

Seiji is dead asleep beside him now, one leg thrown across Shuuichi’s, the blankets a snarl around their bodies. A faint frown pulls at his sleeping face, tucked into Shuuichi’s shoulder. A bright feeling blooms in his chest, but Shuuichi turns the other way.

There, poised curiously at the edge of the futon, is a black lizard, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Or loop around his wrist. Or span the back of his neck exactly.

He reaches his hand out, palm up on the futon. The lizard cocks its head at him, crawls closer to touch its nose to his finger. Somehow, it looks less substantial outside of his skin, pale and almost transparent. Shuuichi’s vision blurs and he feels a hot line drip down across his temple.

He looks away and meets dark, sleep-crusted eyes, open and staring at him. In perhaps the greatest act of mercy of his entire life, Seiji touches a hand to Shuuichi’s chest, and says nothing at all.

-

Doctor’s orders are to stay mostly off his leg for a week, which means his shiki crowd his usually silent apartment, doting on him and causing a fuss. Shuuichi is both grateful and embarrassed in equal measure.

“You’ve been spending time with Matoba,” Hiiragi says, one afternoon. It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” Shuuichi answers, anyway. He’s laid up on the couch, his left leg propped up on a pillow. The curtains are drawn, throwing the room into a midnight gloom. Hiiragi’s stare is heavy, even from behind her mask.

“You seem different. Has it been long since we saw each other?”

“No, it’s been less than a year,” Shuuichi says, “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Hiiragi leans in close, her hand hovering over his face. Bent over him like this it seems clear she’s anything but human. “Maybe… happy?”

By the end of the week Shuuichi feels weighed down by the selfless care of his shiki. Guiltily, he sends them away once the stitches have dissolved but they continue to pop in for the next two weeks. Sasago looms in the back of a meeting with his management team. Urihime pops in on him during a fitting for _A New Years Kiss_. Hiiragi watches him eat several convenience store dinners with barely concealed concern.

He’d only recently convinced his shiki he was a responsible adult who didn’t need their protection. Whatever parts of his life they’re seeing now, he’s not sure they’ll remain convinced.

Seiji calls, once, to ask idly after his leg. They end up on the phone for over an hour, talking about nothing in particular, Shuuichi flushed with happiness under Hiiragi’s vigilant attention.

He doesn’t see the lizard again, though sometimes he can tell it’s close. Almost like how he could tell where it was on his body, a thought more than a feeling. Grief hollows out his chest, but it’s a strange grief, edges softened by a potent cocktail of relief and uncertainty.

He understands enough about Seiji to know that the banishment of the lizard was, for him, an act of kindness. Which is probably why it hurts as bad as it does, but he finds he can’t hold it against him. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t want to.

Spring blooms sweetly, the air fresh and clear, the sun warm and kind on his face, and Seiji finally calls again.

-

They meet in a park near his apartment where the cherry trees are in glorious full bloom. Seiji stands out like a sore thumb among all the fresh greenery, dressed in black like a widow in mourning. He has a strange look on his face, like he’s braced for something. When Shuuichi greets him as usual, he frowns.

“I trust you’ve been well,” Seiji murmurs, his eye darts across Shuuichi’s face, searching.

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’re you? You look… you seem tired,” Shuuichi says, gesturing vaguely towards Seiji, who sniffs. He kind of looks like shit, really; a heavy black bag pulls at his eye, his lips are dry and flaking, his skin sallow and drawn thin over the planes of his face.

“Always such a charmer,” Seiji replies, snidely, but falls easily into step beside him. The park is sparsely populated—thanks to their unusual schedules it’s the middle of a weekday, when most people are at work or school, indisposed to take in the scenery.

“I should’ve brought a bento,” Shuuichi muses. Seiji scoffs, a short, derisive sound. But his teeth sink into his bottom lip, as though he’s thinking about it. Shuuichi buys them drinks from a vending machine, a cheap replacement, before they head deep enough into the park that they can no longer see cars pass, though still hear them.

They settle under a cherry blossom tree, the grass dry and spongy under Shuuichi’s hands as he leans back, eyes on the blurred boundary between petal and sky. He catches Seiji’s jaw clench as he swallows a yawn.

“Seiji,” he says, so that he’ll look at him. Shuuichi leans in slow, telegraphing his movement. Seiji watches with a sleepy indifference. Shuuichi presses their mouth together in a lazy, chaste kiss and Seiji’s breath huffs out his nose in a small sigh.

Shuuichi cups the back of Seiji’s head, fingers burrowing into the silky warmth of his hair above his neck. As they break apart, he keeps his hand there, cradling Seiji’s skull, and then with his other hand to his shoulder firmly pulls Seiji down to lay with his head on Shuuichi’s lap.

Spluttering angrily, Seiji rolls onto his back, flushed red. Shuuichi smiles down at him, charming and innocent.

“Rest a bit,” Shuuichi says, keeping his hand on Seiji’s shoulder to hold him in place. Seiji glowers up at him, to which Shuuichi replies with a cheery smile, “Just close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

“You expect me to sleep in a public park? Like a vagrant?” Seiji demands. The edges of Shuuichi’s mouth curl up.

“Not really, but I think you’ll humour me,” Shuuichi says. Seiji continues to glare up at him. Thinking a change of strategy is in order, Shuuichi shifts his hand to his long black hair, brushes it out of his face, combing gently through the strands. Seiji’s expression doesn’t soften, no, but shifts somewhat.

Shuuichi adjusts his position slightly, sitting up properly to free both his hands to pull all of Seiji’s hair up onto his chest, sorts through the tangles with gentle tugs, enjoying the silky feel between his fingers. Seiji’s eyes drift shut.

He winds Seiji’s hair loosely around one wrist, watches it unspool into a black puddle on the man’s chest. He’s wearing a yukata, the clean lines dividing up his chest, disguising the thinness of his frame. Shuuichi hasn’t yet figured out any rhyme or rhythm to how Seiji dresses, only that it’s always, inevitably, black.

Eventually, Seiji falls asleep, his breathing slowing, his body relaxing into Shuuichi’s touch like it never would consciously. The hard line of his mouth doesn’t soften, but the crease in his brow smooths away. Shuuichi runs a finger along the faint divot between Seiji’s eyebrows, follows the feather-light crinkle around his eye, down to the crease at the corner of his mouth. Seiji’s breath huffs out and he shifts into Shuuichi’s touch.

He’s so beautiful. Shuuichi likes the hardness of his face, likes that his frown doesn’t completely dissolve in sleep, likes the way his long lashes cast shadows across the bruise-dark skin under his eyes. It feels safest to stare now, with Seiji asleep, but he likes best the way Seiji returns his gaze, eye sharp and assessing, an unreadable smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. He likes the way Seiji looks at him like he knows the secrets of Shuuichi’s thoughts, even though it unfailingly makes his heart race.

Shuuichi can feel himself blushing, his pulse heavy and fast in his throat. His legs are falling asleep under the weight of Seiji’s head, but he finds he doesn’t care at all. Around him the world moves; people stop for photos with the flowers, traffic inches along in the distance, but Shuuichi is completely absorbed into the soft huff of Seiji’s breath, the look of concentration on his sleeping face.

He thinks of the two of them from long ago, schoolboys testing the waters of adulthood, trying to best each other. He thinks of the way his breath would catch and his face would heat whenever Seiji looked at him in that particular way he had, like he knew the punchline to a joke Shuuichi was telling. He thinks of Seiji’s casual cruelty, the fresh scar on his face, the feral light in his good eye, the blood he drew with his nails, thin cuts down Shuuichi’s back. He thinks of the expression on Seiji’s face when he notched that second arrow.

He looks at Seiji, now, asleep with his head pillowed in Shuuichi’s lap, the bright spring breeze pulling strands of his hair across his face.

He thinks, _I guess I’ve always…_

A cherry petal floats down, catches in Seiji’s hair and Shuuichi snorts. What, is in he one of his own romances?

After long enough that the nerves in Shuuichi’s legs are dead Seiji shifts, turns his face slightly to press into Shuuichi’s thigh and makes a small, soft noise that sets Shuuichi’s blood to boil. Seiji blinks open his eye, stares, unseeing, at the fabric of Shuuichi’s trousers, then sits up abruptly, his hair falling around him in a tangle of black. Shuuichi’s heart thrums painfully against his ribs.

Seiji opens his mouth to speak, blinks at Shuuichi then tilts his head slightly and says, “Let’s go back to yours,”

“Hm?” Shuuichi can’t quite focus on Seiji’s words, caught on the rasp of his sleepy voice. Seiji leans towards him, his hair falling forward, as if tempting Shuuichi to touch.

“Let’s go back to yours,” Seiji repeats, heavy with meaning. Shuuichi flushes hot all over.

“Napping makes you horny?” He asks, stupidly. Seiji stares at him flatly.

“You were playing with my hair,” he says. “And I like the way you’re looking at me,”

“W-what?” Shuuichi blushes hotly, all the way up his ears. Seiji smirks and stands, his hair trailing down his body, a still-sleepy droop to his eye. Shuuichi starts to get up but stumbles badly as his numb legs stab through with pins and needles. Hissing, he cautiously gets to his feet, shaking out his legs, trying not to look too embarrassed. But Seiji is looking at him with an unfathomable expression, one that makes his heart leap up into his throat.

“Let’s go,” he says. Shuuichi lets himself be led.

“Re _lax_ ,” Shuuichi gasps, gripping Seiji’s hips so tight he can nearly see the bruises forming.

“I am,” Seiji snaps and fucks his hips back. Stars explode in Shuuichi’s vision at the impossible pressure around his dick.

“ _Seiji_ , relax, breathe, you—" Shuuichi wheezes, forces his hands to unclench, rubs vague circles into his skin instead. “Oh, _god_ ,”

“Hurry up,” Seiji gasps, trying once more to rock his hips into him. Shuuichi makes a thin, wounded sound and both his hands fly to Seiji’s waist, hold him gently still.

“Oh my god you absolute _brat_ ,” Shuuichi squeaks. He takes a deep breath then tries again; “Okay, lets try another way, okay? I’m gonna pull out and you’re gonna roll over,”

He can hear Seiji’s inhale, sharp words no doubt poised on his lips, and Shuuichi swiftly pulls out. For a brief moment he’s transfixed by the hungry flutter of Seiji’s entrance, swollen and dripping with lube, then Seiji flips over. He’s red-faced and scowling and _perfect_.

It’s ridiculous that Seiji’s so impatient when Shuuichi’s already made him come once. Dragged him kicking and panting, with three fingers inside him and a fist around his cock, to an orgasm Shuuichi thought would relax him. Instead, Seiji had bucked up into his touch, clawed at his arms, and gasped, “More, _fuck_ , more!”

He’s so tense it seems miraculous they got to the point Shuuichi’s dick could wedge inside him at all. Shuuichi’s control is fraying, battered by the onslaught of Seiji blushing and panting and _demanding_ to be fucked, well and truly desperate, both their patience worn down to slivers.

Shuuichi wants nothing more than to thrust into the wet heat of Seiji’s body and shut him up, but he clings to the last threads of his self-control. He’ll make it good for Seiji, even if he has to fight him every inch of the way.

Shuuichi leans down and kisses him, pressing their bodies flush. Seiji bites him, teeth scraping his tongue as he kisses him back. Shuuichi drags what he thinks is his cleanest hand through the soft tangle of Seiji’s hair, working his way up to scratch gently at his scalp. His other hand he snakes between them, pumps Seiji’s cock steadily.

“Sh—stop, I—" Seiji hisses. Shuuichi sucks on his frowning bottom lip, kisses his sharp chin. 

“S’okay,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna fuck you, promise,”

Seiji makes a soft, sharp sound of disbelief but he returns to kissing Shuuichi easily enough, licking hungrily into his mouth, arms winding around his chest to hold them flush. Shuuichi strokes him lazily for a while, until he feels Seiji relax into his touch. Then he eases his hand out from between them and instead grinds down onto him, their cocks sliding together, Seiji gasping into his mouth.

Blindly, Shuuichi finds the lube rolled up against one knee and pumps out what he objectively recognizes is an absurd amount. He lifts his hips up, off Seiji’s, and slathers his own aching cock, again, makes sure the condom’s secure, then, easy as anything, hikes one of Seiji’s legs up and slips two slick fingers inside him. Seiji makes a breathy sound, rocks into him, bites down hard enough on Shuuichi’s lip to split it.

“Oh, that’s good, that’s real good,” Shuuichi says, pressing his bleeding mouth to Seiji’s throat, “Keep your legs up, okay? I’ve got you,”

Seiji makes a small, annoyed sound, but lifts his legs, thighs dropping open around Shuuichi who sits back and shuffles closer, slips his fingers out and lines up his cock with Seiji’s entrance.

“Look at me, love,” Shuuichi murmurs, “Breathe deep, okay?”

Maybe asking Seiji to look was a mistake. He’s flushed so prettily, eyes dark and glazed, lips spit-slick and parted for his breath. He looks at Shuuichi with something close to wonder, expression shocked and open.

Shuuichi’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

This time, when Shuuichi pushes in Seiji’s body is a welcoming heat, sucking him greedily in. He has to stop intentionally, gasping for air, running one hand soothingly up Seiji’s stomach.

“Okay?” He gasps. Seiji rolls his hips in response, sinking another inch onto Shuuichi’s cock who whines and says, “S-slow down, god, take it easy,”

Shuuichi works his cock deeper slowly, gripping Seiji tight with one hand on his thigh, one on his hip. Seiji rocks up into him, making small impatient noises until Shuuichi bottoms out, groaning deeply. Seiji’s body clutches him, so hot and tight and eager for it, hips restless even now. Shuuichi rocks gently into him, even that barest friction sparking hot up his spine.

“Oh, fuck, baby you feel so good, so—ah—I’m not—" He breaks off into a groan as Seiji hooks his legs around him. He begins to thrust into him, short, slow drags that send fire up his spine.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says, urgently. Shuuichi blinks through the stars popping in his eyes.

“Yeah?” He gasps. Seiji stares at him, looking stunned. Shuuichi huffs a thin laugh, “Got something to tell me?”

He punctuates his question with a firmer thrust that has them both groaning. Seiji’s hands scramble up Shuuichi’s arms, lock around his shoulders, nails digging into him.

“It’s—it’s good,” Seiji says, breathless. Shuuichi bites down on the inside of his cheek, clinging desperately to the last fibres of his self-control in order to not come right then.

“Yeah, yeah, gonna make you feel good,” Shuuichi says mindlessly, hitching Seiji’s hips higher and thrusting faster into him. He _has_ to find Seiji’s prostate, he needs to. He tries to calm himself, tries to think boring, unsexy thoughts but everything is Seiji—rocking up into him, the hot drag of his body around him, whiney gasps for air dropping helplessly from his mouth.

He knows he’s struck the sweet spot when Seiji’s back arches, his ass clenching down like a vice around him, a low moan escaping his gritted teeth.

“Oh, fuck, fu— _Seiji_ ,” Shuuichi garbles out, managing one last solid thrust before he’s coming—pressure unspooling within him into a wave of pleasure that momentarily blocks out everything that isn’t the unbelievable heat of Seiji against him, around him.

Shuuichi rocks out the last shocks of his orgasm, Seiji bucking up into him and making what is undeniably a grunt of frustration. Hazily, Shuuichi is aware that Seiji hasn’t come, and he rallies the last wisps of his brain cells to the task.

With nothing even resembling finesse, Shuuichi pulls out and drags himself down Seiji’s body. He wraps one hand around the base of Seiji’s cock and with the other slips two fingers into his slick hole and crooks them, nailing his prostate just as he closes his mouth around Seiji’s leaking cock. His hair falls all in his eyes, strands sticking in his mouth but in the moment it barely registers.

Seiji moans loudly, followed by a string of noises that might’ve been meant to be words. He fucks down onto Shuuichi’s hand and then up into his mouth. Shuuichi chokes, slightly, but with the single-minded focus born of his pleasure-empty brain keeps his mouth on him, bobbing his head and licking sloppily up his shaft.

The smell of Seiji is thick in his nose, musky and sweaty, the faintest sweet note from his soap. Shuuichi relaxes his jaw, strokes his tongue against the underside of his cock, and inhales deeply as his nose brushes Seiji’s navel.

“Shuuichi!” Seiji yanks on his hair, hauling him off his cock. Shuuichi moans as Seiji’s dick pulses in his hand, cum falling in stripes across his mouth and chin, his hips lifting off the bed.

“You’re fucking debauched,” Seiji pants. Shuuichi stares at his cock then drags his eyes up to his face. Seiji looks ruined, eyes black and glassy, flushed all down his throat, lips swollen red.

“That’s a big word,” Shuuichi mumbles, gently sliding his fingers out of Seiji’s ass and wiping them on the sheets. Seiji’s fingers clench in his hair and tug.

“Come here,” Seiji says, then quieter, as if to himself; “ _Trying to suck my soul out of my dick_ ,”

Shuuichi does as he’s told, dragging himself up the bed to flop down onto Seiji, burying his cum-streaked, blood dotted, sweaty face in his hair.

“You’re _filthy_ ,” Seiji complains.

“Thanks,” Shuuichi mumbles, “You wanna shower?”

“Yes, get off,”

Shuuichi nuzzles in closer, “No, sorry. Need an escort. Bathroom escort.”

“Don’t be idiotic,”

Shuuichi breathes deeply of Seiji’s musky smell, the sharpness of sweat, the soft scent of his hair. “Say it again?”

“You’re an idiot,” Seiji says, immediately. Shuuichi presses his face into his neck, strands of black hair stick to the sweat on both of them.

“No, before, m’name,”

Seiji’s hand touches, lightly, at the back of his neck. “Shuuichi,”

He can feel the rumble of his name in Seiji’s chest, feel the vibration of it in his throat, and then the soft sound of Seiji’s voice rasping in his ear. He sighs, gently, relaxing into the soothing heat of their bodies together.

He closes his eyes, floating warm and soft, Seiji’s body firm beneath his, their hearts thrumming off-tempo against one another’s chest. Right before he drops into sleep he feels, once more, the gentle vibration of Seiji’s voice.

When they wake the sun has dimmed to a line of orange on the horizon. Seiji showers while Shuuichi strips the bed and tosses the sheets in the laundry then gulps three full glasses of water. Fresh out of the shower, hair a damp knot at the base of his neck, Seiji looks just as godawful tired as he did when they met up. But there’s a softness around his mouth, a rosy flush to his face, that wasn’t there before.

“Goodnight,” Shuuichi says, at the door, instead of _when will I see you again?_ Seiji doesn’t smile but looks at him with that particularly incisive gaze of his.

“Goodnight, Shuuichi,” he says then leans in and presses their mouths together. Shuuichi’s arms move of their own accord, looping around Seiji’s waist and holding him close as he tilts his head and licks languidly into Seiji’s mouth. He feels a hot thrill as Seiji’s hands grip his shirt around his waist, hold him firmly in place. He wants… he wants—

Seiji breaks the kiss, flushed and slightly out of breath. He looks at him with one eye, his eyepatch damp and rumpled but firmly covering the other. Seiji leans in and places a soft kiss to the corner of Shuuichi’s mouth, and then he’s gone.

Shuuichi flattens one palm over his chest and wills his frantic heart to calm.

-

Natsume comes over for dinner the following week, Shuuichi spares him his mediocre pasta and orders in instead. They chat idly as they set the table and unpack the food, Nyanko yowling impatiently to eat.

“What’ve you been up to?” Natsume asks, as they shovel food onto plates. Shuuichi hesitates for a long moment then figures he’ll feel better to get it over with.

“I’ve been spending some time with Matoba,” he admits. Nyanko’s dark eyes widen then shrink to suspicious slits over his mountain of food.

“R-really?” Natsume asks, surprised. He stares at Shuuichi like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“Yeah, not exorcist stuff—well, except this once uh—but—” Shuuichi can feel himself blushing furiously and turns away to hide his expression. He thinks of his own skin, unmarred by the inky lizard for the first time he can remember. He pushes the thought away. “God, I don’t know,”

He carries the plates to the table. Natsume sits, watching Shuuichi carefully. Nyanko hops up onto the table and immediately dives into his meal.

“It probably doesn’t make any sense but—but I—” Shuuichi breaks off into an annoyed sigh, frustrated with himself. Natsume’s opinion is important to him, but he doesn’t know how to explain that his loneliness is a wilderness tamed only by Seiji’s touch. _I’ve been sleeping with Matoba. I ate him out on that very couch, actually_ , is definitely not the way but it’s all that comes to mind.

“I don’t know,” Natsume props his chin on one hand, a thoughtful tilt to his mouth, “You always seemed similar in some ways,”

“In what ways?” Shuuichi splutters, taken aback.

“Both shady, of course,” Nyanko interjects, eyes glittering mischievously as he licks his paw clean.

“Sensei!” Natsume squawks in a way that very tellingly reveals some shred of truth to Nyanko’s words. “No! I meant, well, you’re both sort of withdrawn and...” he turns his lamplight eyes on Shuuichi, “You probably have a lot in common,”

Shuuichi looks away, “I know you don’t exactly admire him,”

“Oh, there’s always something to admire in a person,” Natsume says, his smile obvious in his voice. Shuuichi rubs at his mouth to cover his own embarrassed smile.

“Enough about me,” he declares, turning back to the boy, “Tell me more about your work. How’s Tanuma?”

Natsume launches into a cheerful story about work, riddled with interjections from Nyanko. Shuuichi relaxes into it, the familiar rhythms of Natsume’s speech, his sincere smile pulling a goofy grin out of Shuuichi in return. He’s so grateful to have Natsume in his life, his one relationship that feels stable, built on truths and trust. Usually, he tries not to dwell on how sad it is to have a single real friend but when he’s with Natsume he can’t help but be grateful he has one at all.

“Your birthday’s coming up,” Shuuichi says, as they finish with the dishes, “Do you have any plans?”

Natsume blushes pink with pleasure. “Yeah, Touko and Shigeru are making me dinner. I think Nishimura is planning something, too,”

“Well, I’ll take you out for a drink when you have time,” Shuuichi says, cheerfully, “Maybe we can do something that week,”

Natsume grins, “I’d like that,”

They watch a couple episodes of a show Natsume says is popular with his friends, though neither of them can quite grasp the shifting narrative. Nyanko snores on the couch between them. Shuuichi stoically resists the impulse to think about how he had to flip the couch cushions to hide telling stains.

Shuuichi walks Natsume to the door, a dozing Nyanko secure in his arms. Natsume’s nearly an inch taller than him, and though it’s been years since he overtook him, Shuuichi is surprised, once more, by the way he has to look up ever so slightly to say goodbye.

“Please call if you ever need help, I’m always here for you,” Shuuichi tells him.

“I’m not a kid anymore, so please allow me to return the favour,” Natsume says, his large golden eyes sincere, “You can rely on me, Natori,”

Shuuichi ruffles Natsume’s hair to cover his own silly grin, the boy squawks in protest and slaps at his hand. Before Natsume can fight him off Shuuichi says, horribly sincere, “I do, thank you,”

-

In June Shuuichi has a table read for _A New Year’s Kiss_ , something he’s actually been looking forward to after a quiet spring. It’s a large cast, crammed into a slightly too-small room and that, combined with the lighthearted script, lends the afternoon a festive atmosphere.

It’s an ensemble movie, though this will be the only time they’re all in the same room, an indulgence, really, but it goes well. The younger stars are fresh enough in the business to take it seriously but young enough to be silly, the room echoes with conjugal laughter as they work their way carefully through the script.

Shuuichi and Kiko are the oldest of the main cast, which theoretically would give them an air of gravity and responsibility over their cast mates, but they throw that out the window in favour of flirting with each other so outrageously even the director blushes.

And, of course, the producers rented out a bar for a post-read social. Giddy off a successful afternoon and relaxed into the familiar rhythms of his friendship with Kiko, Shuuichi gets well and truly sloshed.

He plays darts against the director and then they team up to take down the writing team. Some of the younger actors talk him through an overly complicated game involving a plastic cup and hot sauce but he abandons them to twirl the sweet, mild-mannered idol around the dance floor.

He and Kiko struggle their way through a half-forgotten drinking song, until one of the writers joins to re-teach them the lines. Kiko, after watching Shuuichi fruitlessly push his long hair from his face several times, pulls a pin from her own hair to fix back part of his fringe.

“You know those detective films were severely underrated—" one of the producers is telling him, very earnestly. Shuuichi can’t help but laugh, though he manages to spin his reaction to seem flattered, not taken aback.

“They were an easy shoot, a strong pair of producers on that series,” Shuuichi says, “Once you find people you like working with, stick with them,”

“Right. That makes sense,” The idol nods solemnly, then adds, bashfully, “I always did like detective stories,”

Kiko slouches up against Shuuichi’s shoulder, her perfume diluted by the smell of cigarettes. It’s a familiar combination and Shuuichi leans into it automatically. “You ever think about it?”

“About what?” Shuuichi asks, rolling his empty glass between his hands. He’s sitting down so he won’t sway; already the ground feels unstable underfoot. Kiko sighs and tosses her caramel curls over one shoulder.

“You know. Me, us. The fun we had,”

Shuuichi smirks, “Don’t fish for compliments, you know I do,”

Kiko’s long lashes flutter in exaggerate flirtation, “Is that so?” Her slim hand lands on his wrist and he looks down in surprise then remembers himself and winks at her.

“Kiko-san you are unforgettable,”

“Oh, _-san_? So formal!” She pouts and removes her hand, and continues in closer to her regular tone, “We did have fun, didn’t we?”

Shuuichi sets aside his glass, a smile still playing around his mouth, “Kiko-san are you propositioning me or not?”

Kiko throws back her head and laughs, a bright, bubbly sound that has heads turning from around the bar. “Oh, Natori. Maybe once we wrap, hm?”

“You’re going to make me wait?” He grins as Kiko’s hand returns to his wrist, her lush mouth turned up into a cheeky grin of her own.

“It’s the least you deserve, you emotionally-constipated airhead. For now let’s drink!”

It’s not even that late by the time Shuuichi is leaning into a pay phone in the back of the bar but the world tilts dizzyingly underfoot as he dials the number. His whole body rings warmly, his nerves buzzing in a nice way.

Seiji picks up after three rings, his voice cold as he says, “Hello?”

“Seiji.” Shuuichi says, surprised that he’d answered at all.

“Shuuichi?”

“Yeah. Hey. Are you… free right now?” Shuuichi leans into the wall, cradling the phone close to block out the noise of the bar.

“Are you drunk?” Seiji asks, tone unreadable through the crackle of the phone line.

“Yes,”

Seiji sighs, “What do you want?”

“I want to see you,” Shuuichi says, immediately, “Can you come pick me up?”

He hears the hiss of Seiji’s intake of breath but then Kiko bumps up against his side and he turns, surprised, to look down into her beautiful, drink-red face.

“Who’re you calling?” She asks in a stage whisper. Shuuichi shifts the phone away from his mouth.

“A friend,” he also-whispers.

“What! Natori doesn’t have any friends!” Kiko cackles. Shuuichi is drunk enough that this is funny instead of sad.

“Shush, none of your business,” he says, waving her away, and moves the phone back close to his mouth, “Seiji?”

“I’ll be there soon,” Seiji sighs into his ear, sounding thoroughly annoyed. Shuuichi grins and rattles off the address. Seiji hangs up without saying goodbye.

Shuuichi picks his way across the bar, saying his goodbyes to Kiko, the director and producers, whichever cast mates fall into his path. Time bends, confused, around the cheerful, drunken farewells, and by the time he stumbles out into the warm night Seiji is waiting outside.

He’s standing under the streetlight, wearing a black yukata, his hair tied neatly into a long line down his back. He turns to look at Shuuichi, his mouth a flat line, the yellow light throwing exaggerated shadows across his face, drawing out the decisive line of his eyepatch.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi says, then falls into a stunned silence. He can’t quite believe Seiji is here, that Shuuichi called him and he came.

Seiji cocks his brow. “Hello,”

Shuuichi walks right up into his space and touches his hand to Seiji’s cheek, just below the eyepatch. “Hi,” he breathes. Seiji’s eye flicks across his face, landing on the hairpin restraining part of his fringe.

The buzz of alcohol in his head turns the world blurry around the edges as his blood sloshes warmly through him. Seiji is a comforting heat, irresistible. Shuuichi runs his hand down his arm, circles his wrist and brings Seiji’s hand up to his mouth, kisses his palm wetly.

“Hm?” Seiji startles slightly and Shuuichi blearily focuses on his face, smiling slightly, “What do you want?”

“Mmm,” Shuuichi nuzzles into Seiji’s palm then licks up his pointer finger. Seiji’s breath hisses as, smiling, Shuuichi sucks his finger into his mouth.

“Shit.” Seiji murmurs as Shuuichi twirls his tongue around his finger, bobbing his head slightly, “You’re such a slut,”

Shuuichi moans appreciatively and pulls off his hand to nuzzle into Seiji’s neck, “You look so good,” he sighs, “I wanna fuck you,”

“You’re drunk,” Seiji observes, his free hand landing lightly on his waist. Shuuichi sucks in a deep breath at the touch.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll actually be able to last long enough to satisfy you,” he licks a line up Seiji’s throat, presses his mouth to one flushed ear, “Make you come on my cock,”

“We’re in public,” Seiji snaps, flustered and annoyed. Shuuichi smiles into his hair.

“Sorry I’ll be quieter,” he whispers against Seiji’s ear, making him shiver, “I wanna open you up on my fingers, get you all wet and loose then fill you up with my cock. Fuck you stupid, til you can’t string a sentence together,”

“Shuuichi—" Seiji says warningly, his fingers digging into his sides, “Can’t you wait until we’re home?”

Shuuichi absolutely refuses to reflect on the way warmth blooms in his chest at Seiji saying _home_ , like his apartment has become theirs. Instead, he nips at his earlobe and finally withdraws, holding Seiji close with his hand around his wrist. Seiji is flushed pink, his bottom lip shiny from the swipe of his tongue, his eye hooded and dark.

“I wanted to see you like this,” Shuuichi admits, rubbing his thumb against Seiji’s pulse, “You always blush so prettily,”

Seiji’s expression flattens out. “Insatiable.”

Shuuichi can feel a dopey grin growing on his face, “Only when it comes to you,”

Shuuichi watches a small war play out on Seiji’s face, in the form of faint creasing to his eye and minute twitches to his mouth, between telling Shuuichi off or giving in to his own arousal. He squeezes his hand around Seiji’s slim wrist and smiles charmingly.

“Get in the car.” Seiji says, flatly.

“Yessir,” Shuuichi replies, smile blooming into a grin when Seiji’s brow snaps down and his blush deepens.

The drive passes in a dizzying blur of lights, Shuuichi’s stomach churning uncomfortably at the motion. He manages to stab his code in at the lobby door by closing one eye to focus, but then fumbles with the key to his apartment for what feels like a full three minutes before managing to throw the door open and hustle Seiji inside. 

The instant the door closes behind them, Shuuichi leans heavily against Seiji, flattening him to the wall. Seiji sighs, put upon, his hands once more resting lightly on his waist.

“You good?” Shuuichi asks, softly, “You want this?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one checking in? You are drunk, after all,” Seiji huffs. He reaches up and slips free the pin in Shuuichi’s hair, allowing a curtain of blonde locks to flow into his eyes.

“I wanna do whatever you want. So just say the word and I’m yours,” Shuuichi says. Seiji eyes him.

“You shouldn’t just say that kind of shit,” He drawls, his nails digging into Shuuichi’s sides.

“But it’s true,” he insists, “I want you to use me,”

Seiji makes a low noise, scowling at him. “I’m going to ruin you,” he snarls. There’s a hot clench in Shuuichi’s abdomen, his body’s enthusiastic reply.

“Please,” he breathes. Seiji shoves him off,

“Go drink a glass of water and take an ibuprofen,”

“Ooh, kinky,”

Seiji’s glare is withering, “And take a shower, you smell like smoke,”

Shuuichi does as told, fumbling through the kitchen for the first aid kit, standing over the sink to gulp water. The floor still tilts precariously underfoot, but with something to focus on some of the blurriness in his head clears. He showers quickly, nearly braining himself trying to clamber into the tub. The hot water feels good, slips him back under the soothing numbness of the alcohol. His body stirs with renewed interest and he finds himself biting down into his lip, smoothing his hands down the planes of his stomach. His skin jolts at his own touch, heat pooling pleasurably between his legs. He stumbles out of the shower and into the bedroom, naked, mostly wet and mostly hard.

Seiji is sitting on the bed, still wearing his yukata, fingers tapping restlessly against the cover of a book in his lap. He watches Shuuichi with undisguised hunger as he crawls onto the bed and into Seiji’s lap.

“You’re here,” Shuuichi says, dumbstruck. Seiji levels him with a cool look, one corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly up. He’s untied his hair, so it falls in a silky black curtain over his shoulders. Shuuichi pets down it with one hand, the strands soft between his fingers.

“How very observant,” Seiji says, like Shuuichi is the single most aggravating person he’s ever met. Shuuichi smiles like a dope.

“‘m glad,” Shuuichi mumbles, running his hands up Seiji’s arms, down his chest. Seiji places his book on the side table and tilts his face up, kisses him. Shuuichi tugs at the neckline of Seiji’s yukata, slips his hands beneath to feel warm, soft skin. Seiji makes a small noise and Shuuichi licks into his mouth, presses closer, wound up tight around a greedy heat in his gut. Time bends, once more, around the hungry press of Seiji’s mouth, the warm heat of his body.

Somehow, Shuuichi manages to fumble Seiji out of his clothes, despite his clumsy hands and Seiji’s annoyed swats. When Seiji is finally naked, too, Shuuichi sits back and stares.

“Holy shit,” he says. Seiji’s face burns red even as he tips his head to one side, staring up at Shuuichi with a falsely cool expression.

“Like what you see?” Seiji asks, caustically, like it’s a joke. Shuuichi runs reverent hands up the harsh line of his hips and drags them abruptly up onto his lap, sprawling Seiji’s legs out awkwardly. Seiji flushes all down his throat, squirming at the position.

“Look at you,” Shuuichi murmurs, wrapping a hand around Seiji’s cock and stroking him firmly. His gaze stays riveted on the parts of Seiji revealed by the obscene spread of his legs, “All for me,”

Seiji makes a choked sound, his cock throbbing hotly in Shuuichi’s fist. Shuuichi’s brow lifts as he drags his eyes up to meet Seiji’s, dark and sharp above his sweet blush. He hisses, “Stop it,”

“What?” Shuuichi asks, still working his cock. With his free hand he traces down Seiji’s stomach, thumbs the jut of his hipbone.

“Don’t—" Seiji makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat as Shuuichi flicks the underside of his cockhead with his thumbnail, “— _hng_ , tease—,”

Shuuichi is too drunk to understand what Seiji is trying to say, his usual fluency in the subtle shifts of his expression, the shades of his voice, blurred by the cotton fuzz of alcohol in his head.

“The touching or the talking?” Shuuichi asks, squeezing Seiji’s cock.

“What?” He huffs out around his panting breath. Shuuichi frowns, running his free hand from Seiji’s hip down to cradle his balls, rolling them gently in his fingers.

“I’m drunk,” Shuuichi says, then bends to lick and suck at Seiji’s nipple, as if to make his point. Seiji arches up into him, gasping, as Shuuichi lathes his tongue over the hard nub, letting his teeth catch on the skin as he continues to work Seiji’s cock.

His whole body buzzes, electric, as Seiji squirms beneath him, cock leaking in his fist, and threads a hand in Shuuichi’s hair. Shuuichi moans, twisting his fist around Seiji, and is unceremoniously hauled off Seiji’s chest by the hand in his hair.

“What was I saying?” Shuuichi asks, dazed. Seiji stares at him.

“You’re drunk,” he replies, his voice frayed.

“Oh. Yeah,” Shuuichi releases Seiji’s cock and glides his hand up his torso, instead, pinching Seiji’s other nipple. He watches the flex of Seiji’s jaw as he clenches his teeth and keens. “So pretty, _look_ at you—oh, right. I’m drunk so please tell me what you’d like me to do,”

“All I _want_ is for you to follow through on your word,” Seiji snaps, batting away Shuuichi’s hand and pushing himself up onto his elbows. His attempt to look dignified is so cute it nearly derails Shuuichi’s train of thought all over again.

“What?” Shuuichi asks, searching his wine-soaked brain for the memory. Seiji makes a derisive noise.

“To make me come on your cock,” he says, flatly. A bolt of pleasure pierces through the fog of Shuuichi’s mind, heat coiling in his navel.

“ _Oh_. Yeah, I can do that,” Shuuichi says, all in a rush, “It’s just—sometimes you say things you don’t mean and I. I’m easily confused right now,”

“What are you talking about?” Seiji demands.

“Well, when you say _stop teasing_ usually you mean _that feels good_ ,” Seiji’s glare could melt through metal. “I don’t want to get anything wrong,”

“You’re _insufferable_ ,”

Shuuichi grins, loose and warm, “See I _think_ what you mean to say is charming—"

The rest of his sentence, and all coherent thought, is lost to Seiji’s mouth as he lunges up and claims his lips, licking greedily into him. Shuuichi moans and gathers Seiji close, clumsily pulling him onto his lap, gripping his waist to grind up into him.

“Fingers,” Seiji smears the word against Shuuichi’s mouth, “In me. Now.”

“Okay, _yes_ —" Shuuichi wheezes, fumbling for the lube rolled up against his knee. He squeezes an absurd amount of fluid over his hand.

“Calm—" Seiji’s voice cuts off abruptly into a hiss as Shuuichi rubs his lube soaked finger to his entrance.

“Seiji, fuck,” Shuuichi says, for no real reason but the unbelievable sight of Seiji naked in his lap. His thighs tremble as Shuuichi rubs at him, slowly working the tip of his finger past the ring of muscle.

“Calm down,” Seiji snaps. Shuuichi kneads his ass with one hand, obsessed with the flutter of muscle around his finger as he works it deeper.

“Fuck, you’re so warm. Oh,” Shuuichi blinks as his finger slips in all the way to the knuckle, “It’s like your body remembers me,”

Seiji shudders, nails digging into Shuuichi’s back, his cock rubbing up against Shuuichi’s stomach, smearing precum across his abs. Shuuichi latches onto the soft skin at the base of Seiji’s throat, sucks absently as he works him open with slow, gentle thrusts of his hand.

“More,” Seiji grunts into Shuuichi’s hair.

“Whatever you say, love,” Shuuichi murmurs against Seiji’s throat. He doesn’t miss the hitch to his breath. Carefully, he works another finger into him, trying to soothe the clench of Seiji’s body by rubbing circles into the base of his spine with his free hand.

“Does it feel good? I want you to feel good,” Shuuichi slurs against his shoulder, dragging his teeth across flushed skin.

“I— _uhn_ , yes,” Seiji rasps. Shuuichi scissors his fingers, dragging them against Seiji’s inner walls.

“Tell me,” Shuuichi murmurs, nibbling Seiji’s flushed skin, flicking his thumb against his rim.

“ _Ah_ , it—it’s good,” Seiji grits out, tensing and bearing down on his hand. A bolt of heat sends blood rushing to Shuuichi’s dick.

“Ready for more?”

“Yes,” Seiji hisses, nails raking down Shuuichi’s back. He withdraws from Seiji’s shoulder with a final nip and leans back to pout up at Seiji, shaking his hair from his eyes.

“I want you to _say_ it,” he whines. Seiji stares down at him, eyes blown dark, lips kiss-swollen, like he’s trying to decide whether to go along with Shuuichi or slap him. Shuuichi plunges his fingers deeper, glancing off Seiji’s prostate and he shudders, decision made.

“I’m—I—" Seiji takes a breath and screws his eyes shut, “I’m—I want more— _uhn_ ,”

Shuuichi immediately stuffs another finger inside, wiggling around to stretch him out. Seiji’s cock drips precum against his stomach as he shudders.

“Thank you,” Shuuichi says, sincerely, rubbing circles at the base of his spine. Seiji’s eyes crack open to peer at him. “You’re too good to me,”

Seiji huffs out a faint laugh. “I think you’ve set the bar too low,”

Shuuichi turns this over in his drunken mind for a moment before dismissing it entirely. “Nope, definitely not,”

Seiji frowns down at him, but all fuck-flushed and disheveled, the expression looks endearing and cute instead of cold. Shuuichi’s heart slams against his ribs. Something warm unspools inside him. Seiji’s expression shifts in a way that’s hard to read but makes the hair stand up on the back of Shuuichi’s neck, then leans down and kisses him.

Seiji’s tongue is greedy and sloppy in his mouth, he pants out soft little noises each time Shuuichi glances off his sweet spot, sounds that make Shuuichi feel out of his mind, that twist his insides into a hot snarl. 

“I’m ready,” Seiji says, wiggling in his lap impatiently, “Put it in me,”

“Oh, Seiji,” Shuuichi gasps, winded, against the curtain of Seiji’s hair, “ _Fuck_ , it’s so hot how bad you want it,”

Seiji’s whole body tenses up like he wants to argue the point, but Shuuichi slips his hand out and from Seiji’s mouth spills a plaintive, “ _Oh_ ,”

Clumsily, but quickly, Shuuichi retrieves a condom from the side table and fruitlessly tries to tear it open with lube slicked hands. Seiji snatches it impatiently from him and tears open the packet, rolls it onto Shuuichi’s dick efficiently. Sparks shoot up his spine at the touch.

Shuuichi shoves Seiji off and onto his back and crawls between his legs. Before Seiji can formulate a complaint, he thrusts inside him, finding an unsteady rhythm.

“Fuck,” Seiji gasps, arms scrambling around Shuuichi, hips fucking up against him, “Shuuichi—”

“Let me—I can—" Shuuichi mumbles, and hoists one of Seiji’s legs higher, thrusts deeper into him. He can tell he’s hit Seiji’s prostate when he clenches down around him, stars exploding behind Shuuichi’s eyelids at the pressure, and lets out a breathy, high whine.

“Yes, yeah, so good,” Shuuichi babbles, burying his face in Seiji’s neck and biting down over his artery. Seiji makes another brilliant sound and then yanks Shuuichi’s mouth up to meet his in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and damp gasps for air.

The alcohol in his system numbs some of the pleasure, but not enough to halt the desperate wind of heat in his navel. Seiji is so hot, so tight around him, so responsive to his touch, rolling his hips in time.

Shuuichi shifts his balance onto one hand and snakes the other down between them, finds Seiji’s cock hard and leaking. They both groan as he begins to work his cock, sloppy and fast, Seiji bites down into Shuuichi’s lip and whines, hips hitching up to meet his thrusts.

Shuuichi breaks the kiss to shift his weight backwards, hitching Seiji’s hips higher so he can more consistently nail his prostate. Seiji makes a sound just short of a shout, blushing red down all the way to his nipples.

“So good—take me so well—like you were made for me,” Shuuichi slurs out between gasps for air. Seiji clenches down around his cock, bucks up into him and moans like he can’t help it.

“Shuuichi—I’m—I-I’m—" Seiji claws his hands up Shuuichi’s arms, leaving trails of lightning behind.

“You gonna come? Gonna come for me, oh, Seiji please—" Shuuichi says and Seiji’s spine arches, his thighs shaking around him. He releases Seiji’s cock and hikes his hips up further, braces himself to fuck him hard and fast. Seiji whimpers, hands tangling in his hair, losing the coordination to move in time with his thrusts, his cock dragging against Shuuichi’s abs. He feels hot all over, his skin buzzing, pleasure coiling tight inside him, Seiji plastered to him with sweat, ass clenched tight around him.

Seiji has that strange look on his face, almost like wonder, like he’s surprised at his own pleasure, like he’s too preoccupied to control his expression. He’s so beautiful. Shuuichi buries his face in his neck and groans.

He can’t believe he’s allowed this, can’t believe Seiji wants him this way—that all his years of pining and all their misfires could somehow lead them here.

“Oh, fuck, Seiji,” Shuuichi pants the words against Seiji’s sweaty neck, “I love you,”

“Shuuichi—!” Seiji claws at his scalp, shuddering and bucking up into him and comes hot on both their stomachs. The sporadic clenching of Seiji’s body, the tremble of his thighs around him, sends Shuuichi over the edge and his orgasm shreds through him. He slumps onto Seiji, groaning as he rocks slightly into him, the heat in his abdomen bleeding out into a pleasant buzz throughout his entire body.

Sleep creeps up on him, or something enough like it, floating in a warm haze of alcohol and pleasure. Then Seiji digs his fingers into his ribs and he snorts, noisily, against his neck.

“ _Off_ ,” Seiji snaps and rolls him off onto his side. Shuuichi blearily watches Seiji pad softly into the bathroom before sitting up on the edge of the bed. The room tips dizzily for a moment. He squints down at his crotch, clumsily works off the condom and tries to tie a knot but it slips between his fingers and falls to the floor with a sad little _plop_. Shuuichi snorts, then laughs.

“Ah, delirious, I see,” Seiji says dryly, walking back to the bed and dropping a damp washcloth onto Shuuichi’s lap. He’s wearing a pair of Shuuichi’s sleep-pants, hanging low on his hips. He glares down at the condom on the floor.

“Sorry,” Shuuichi mumbles, still grinning, as he sloppily wipes himself. Seiji picks the condom up, looking thoroughly put-upon.

“Next time let’s go without,” he says, as if he’s discussing something as mundane as the weather.

“Really?” Shuuichi puts a hand to Seiji’s waist and yanks him in closer, pets down his hip, “Won’t that be messy?”

Seiji’s eyes gleam as he looks down at him. “I like a little mess,”

Shuuichi’s mouth goes dry, a faint throb of heat shooting through his exhausted body. “You’re so hot,”

Seiji snorts and snatches the washcloth out of his lap, walks back into the bathroom. “No sleep ‘til you drink more water, you drunken fool,”

“Yessir,” Shuuichi mumbles, slowly tipping forward onto his feet. He follows Seiji into the bathroom, where he drains three more glasses of water and lazily brushes his teeth. Most of his attention is on Seiji, finger-combing his hair back into a ponytail, rinsing his face with water, using Shuuichi’s toothbrush to clean his teeth. He so easily, so casually, fits right into all the empty space around Shuuichi. His chest gets so tight it’s hard to breathe.

Shuuichi bullies Seiji up against the sink, cups his jaw and slides his hands into the spill of his dark hair. Seiji looks back at him blankly, like he’s surprised by what he sees. Shuuichi kisses him, sloppy because he’s still very much drunk, but as gently as he can. He has the errant, nonsensical thought, that if he kisses Seiji just right some of the warmth in his chest will spill over into him.

“Seiji,” he says, when they break apart, still so close their lips brush. To his own ears it sounds like he’s saying something else. Seiji shivers, his eyes still closed. Shuuichi moves his hand so he can trace the scar looping around Seiji’s right eye.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says, softly, like it means something else. His eyes blink open, dark and endless. “Get into bed.”

Shuuichi runs his finger along the main vein of scar tissue, trailing up Seiji’s temple. He whispers, smiling, “Yessir,”


	4. summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d do anything to you, if you asked,”
> 
> “Don’t you mean for me?”
> 
> “That too,”

Shuuichi wakes up warm, a fuzzy feeling in his mouth, a spiky pain behind his eyes, a musky smell in his nose. It feels like he only just closed his eyes, but the buttery-yellow gleam of dawn creeps through the window. Beside him, Seiji sits with his chin in his palm, his elbow propped up on one bent knee. His expression is hard, a dot of blood on his bottom lip from chewing at it. His gaze is riveted on the far corner of the room, as if he’s just looked away from Shuuichi.

“You’re still here,” Shuuichi says. His voice cracks, embarrassingly. He thinks he might still be drunk. Seiji’s gaze shifts to him, eyes churning with some unknowable emotion.

“Yes,” he says, flatly. Shuuichi is sure he looks like shit. His eyes feel dry and gritty, the back of his throat tastes like something died between his molars. Seiji looks tired, his eyes drawn soft at the outer corners, his hair frizzy and tangled where it’s escaped its tie. He looks beautiful.

“Why?” Shuuichi croaks. Seiji’s brows tip down, the thickest rope of scar tissue around his eye flexes with the movement.

“Are you accusing me of something?” He demands, but his voice is soft.

“No, I—" Shuuichi reaches out a hand clumsily, tangles his fingers in Seiji’s hair. “Am I dreaming?”

Seiji gives him a look, like he hadn’t realized he could still be shocked by the lows of Shuuichi’s intelligence.

“Dead, maybe?” Shuuichi jokes, weakly. Seiji shifts so he’s facing him more directly.

“Carry on like this you’ll wish you were,” he drawls. Shuuichi feels a silly grin tug at his face.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me baby,” Seiji’s face goes through several microscopic shifts in expression, none of which Shuuichi is awake or sober enough to read.

He tugs at Seiji’s hair and tilts his chin up, drags his mouth along the soft skin of Seiji’s throat. He feels more than hears the intake of his breath, like Seiji’s about to speak, but then after a moment he only sighs, a rush of heat against Shuuichi’s skin. Then Seiji closes his mouth around the join of Shuuichi’s neck. He feels the dip in the mattress as Seiji braces his arms on either side of his head, smells the sweetness of his hair as it falls around them, closing them off from the world. Seiji bites down.

Shuuichi gets the curious sense that he might be at risk of doing something embarrassing, like cry or break out into song.

Seiji pulls back and looks at him, wreathed in the black halo of his own hair. The look on his face makes the hair stand up on the back of Shuuichi’s neck. He can see clearly the pink mark on his neck, still shiny with spit from his mouth, and his heart beats faster. Seiji looks like he could say any number of things but when he opens his mouth what comes out is only,

“I’m going to shower,”

Shuuichi lays back, sweaty and dry-mouthed, and tries to remember how to breathe.

He dozes while Seiji’s in the shower, and by the time he’s reawakened his hangover has descended grimly upon him. A band of pressure fizzles around his eyes, making him wince pathetically at every small movement. His stomach rolls up into a hard, cold ball. When Seiji emerges from the bathroom, he finds him bundled up in his blankets, face pressed to the pillow, moaning pitifully.

“Aren’t you too old for this kind of behaviour?” Seiji asks, without a single shred of mercy.

“Ungh, worth it,” Shuuichi mumbles. Seiji makes a noise of disgust. “I love…” _being inside you, watching you brush your teeth, waking up like this_ , Shuuichi trails off, confused, and then pain spikes in his temples and he groans.

“I’ll just see myself out, then,” Seiji says, dryly.

It’s well into the afternoon when Shuuichi wakes suddenly, in a heart-pounding cold sweat, and remembers what he _said_.

-

It’s both good and bad that on Monday Shuuichi leaves for Tokyo. Good because he’s theoretically busy, and so can’t stew in his own stupidity, and bad because he thinks constantly of Seiji while he’s away.

They booked out three days in the city for location shoots, but the weather is uncooperative; it rains for seventy-two hours straight and the shoot’s extended to a week. Shuuichi spends a lot of time playing darts with Kiko in the hotel bar.

He spends the rest of his free time spiralling.

It’s one thing to come to a quiet realization on his own, to hold delicately, like one would a bomb, the truth of his feelings. It’s another thing entirely to actually _tell_ Seiji, like handing him the power to destroy him.

He told Seiji he trusted him, and that was the truth. But he’d rather get shot again than be so horribly vulnerable.

All the same, he misses Seiji, and self-preservation has never been his strength anyway. He calls the Matoba residence on his first night back and leaves a message with the receptionist who answers. Something smooth and casual, something that shrugs off Shuuichi’s drunken confession.

“Tell Matoba that I’m back in town and, um, I’d like to see him or—that is, if he’s free this week… Uh, actually, can you just tell him to call me back, when he has time? Thanks,”

Shuuichi is a man who has made a living off of his charm.

On the following night, his door chimes.

He hasn’t been back from the studio long, his hair still damp at his nape from the shower. Assuming it’s a delivery, he absently pushes the buzzer, thinking about having a drink before bed.

“Good evening,” Seiji’s cold voice crackles through the buzzer and Shuuichi startles badly, his finger slipping off the buzzer. Hastily, he presses it down again and leans into the speaker.

“Seiji? Come on up,”

Uselessly, Shuuichi spins in place, eyes darting across his apartment. The curtains are drawn, the kitchen counter cluttered with mail, a few dishes languishing in the sink. The air is warm and stale, so he moves to open the windows a crack to the night air. Seiji’s never come over unannounced before. It makes Shuuichi unaccountably nervous.

There’s a loud knock at the front door, and Shuuichi rushes to respond, a panicky twist in his stomach. Seiji breezes in, dressed in a black yukata, his face drawn pale.

“You alright?” Shuuichi asks, closing the door and ushering Seiji further into the apartment, a hand to the small of his back.

“Yes,” Seiji says, tersely. He’s chewing at his bottom lip, dots of blood stark against his pale skin. His eye fixes on Shuuichi’s face and his heart stops. Seiji snaps, “Stop that,”

Shuuichi opens his mouth to ask what he means, to ask what the hell is going on, but Seiji reaches up and effortlessly slips his eyepatch off. Like it’s nothing at all. Shuuichi’s eyes catch on the tangled scar tissue, his heart catches in his throat.

Seiji shoves him backwards, towards the couch, then drops his hands to unzip Shuuichi’s pants. Obligingly, all the blood drops out of Shuuichi’s brain to pool in his navel.

“Seiji,” Shuuichi says, stupidly, trying to grab Seiji’s hands.

“Shut up,” Seiji hisses. He flattens Shuuichi to the couch and sucks his cock into his mouth. 

Shuuichi gets so hard so fast his head spins, lights popping against the back of his eyelids as Seiji lathes at him, his tongue warm and insistent. Seiji’s eyes are open, unfocused, his eyelashes fluttering as he swallows Shuuichi’s cock deep into the wet heat of his mouth.

He sucks Shuuichi off with a single-minded focus, efficiently and thoroughly. No less aroused for his confusion, Shuuichi lasts only a few minutes before he’s coming down Seiji’s throat. The world feels unsteady as he tries to catch his breath.

Seiji leans his forehead against Shuuichi’s thigh for a moment, panting lightly, and then startles away. The weight of his head leaves an imprint on Shuuichi’s skin, a ghostly blush around the glossy skin of his scar.

Seiji’s expressions are so often like puzzles, or nesting dolls, tempting Shuuichi to unpack their meaning, to search into the faint creases of his face for the barest traces of emotion.

Whatever look is on Seiji’s face now, he has no desire to decipher it.

“Seiji?” Shuuichi touches a hand to his shoulder. He looks strange—flushed, his eyes sharp and focused inwards, his lips parted for the rasp of his breath—and he doesn’t quite meet his gaze.

“I can’t stay,” Seiji says, distantly, as he begins to get to his feet. Shuuichi clumsily scoops him into his lap, Seiji’s thighs bracketing his own, sliding perfectly into place.

“Okay,” Shuuichi says, his breath thin. Seiji’s mouth is flushed red, shiny with spit, his pupils blown dark as he finally looks back at him. “You wanna come?”

Seiji’s brow crinkles as Shuuichi fits his hands over the sharp lines of his hips, pulls him in flush then licks down his neck. He nuzzles into the warm skin at the base of his throat then drags his teeth over his pulse. Seiji’s breath hitches, his crotch presses more insistently against Shuuichi’s stomach, and he tucks his face into Shuuichi’s throat, mouths sloppily at him.

Seiji lifts his face and for a moment Shuuichi glimpses his strange, dark expression, but then Seiji’s kissing him. It’s sloppy—Shuuichi pleasure numb, Seiji… whatever he’s feeling—more a clumsy meeting of teeth and tongue, damp puffs of breath, than anything resembling finesse.

Seiji kisses him like he wants to crawl inside him, like he’s angry, like he’s trying to prove something. Shuuichi is jolted back to that night outside 7-Eleven, the air humid and thick between them, Shuuichi’s heart thrumming in lust and fear.

He fumbles with Seiji’s yukata, untying the knot holding it closed, rucking the fabric up his thighs, until he can pull down his underwear and fist his cock. Seiji hisses, breaking the kiss, his gaze faraway as his body trembles.

“Are you okay?” Shuuichi asks, cupping his jaw with his other hand to hold him steady. Seiji stares at him like he doesn’t understand the question. A rush of shivers cascade down Shuuichi’s spine.

Seiji’s hand comes down between them, wraps around Shuuichi’s hand on his cock. He murmurs, “Focus,”

So Shuuichi does. He knows Seiji’s body well enough, now, that making him come takes only a few minutes. He strokes him briskly, thumbing at the head of his cock, kisses him sloppily, combs through his hair.

Seiji’s breath hitches and then he groans, softly, into Shuuichi’s mouth as his cock throbs in his fist, releasing a hot rush over his fingers. Shuuichi strokes him through his orgasm, as Seiji breaks the kiss to drop his head on Shuuichi’s shoulder. His breath rasps hard, uneven, and Shuuichi rolls his black hair around his wrist, idly, waiting for him to come down.

After a few moments, Seiji lifts his head. Shuuichi tilts his chin up to kiss him and Seiji jerks away. There’s a hardness in his eyes, like anger.

Shuuichi fumbles for the tissues on the coffee table, clumsily wipes them both clean and helps Seiji to right his yukata. With Seiji still straddling his lap, Shuuichi combs back his long hair, sloppily reties his ponytail. Seiji’s mouth hardens into a frown.

“Stop it,” he grumbles. Shuuichi looks back into his dark eyes, his hands smoothing the shorter hairs by Seiji’s face back behind his ears. His face is so carefully blank, but Shuuichi can tell something is seething just beneath the surface.

“Why?” He asks, softly. Seiji’s face contorts with disgust and Shuuichi thinks that, for once, it might not be directed at him.

It’s only when Shuuichi is standing at the front door with him that he sees the parasol, leaned up against the wall. The floor drops out beneath him.

The youkai was the first definitive thing he learned about Seiji. Before he knew what it meant to be a Matoba, he knew the cost. And he’s known, all this time, that Seiji continues to deal with it, month after month. He’d just rather not think about it.

Seiji likes to say that the youkai is stupid, but he’s got proof on his face that says it isn’t _always_ stupid. How long until it learns? How long until Seiji slips?

Shuuichi takes an unsteady breath and Seiji’s shoulders shoot up to his ears. He can already see the shape of the conversation to come. It’s with a resigned dread that Shuuichi says, “Seiji, you—"

“I don’t want to hear it,” Seiji says, blandly. Shuuichi flexes his empty hands in and out of fists. He has to tear his eyes away from the parasol.

“Let me help,” he says, pleading.

“No,” Seiji snarls, impatiently shoving on his shoes. Shuuichi’s throat is tight, a cold feeling crawling up from his stomach.

“Seiji—" he touches a hand to his arm, and Seiji flinches away. His face is a cold mask of fury.

“I don’t want it,” Seiji snaps. “I didn’t ask for any of this for—for you to—"

“What?” Shuuichi’s voice comes out a near whisper. Seiji turns away, his jaw working silently.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he repeats, thinly, wild-eyed and wavering on the threshold. Shuuichi grabs his arm and considers it a victory when he doesn’t rip out of his hold. 

“I’m offering anyways.”

“ _Why?_ ” Seiji demands, his voice snapping like a whip, “I make you miserable,”

The room spins dizzyingly as Shuuichi tries to grapple with such an unexpected accusation. He says, bewildered, “No you don’t,”

Seiji looks at him like he’s stupid. It’s a familiar expression, one that unfailingly makes his heart twist, even now.

“I’ll never repay you,” Seiji says, defiantly. He knows there’s something Seiji’s not saying, but it’s like trying to speak a foreign language when all he has is a phrase book. How do you say _I care about you; I’ll never hold it against you_ , in the Matoba dialect?

“You don’t owe me anything in return,” Shuuichi’s heart is in his mouth. Panic makes his breath come thin.

Seiji glares, shutters slamming down behind his eyes. “You don’t get it,”

Shuuichi knows that the harder he clings, the more Seiji will fight him. _I won’t thank you for it_. Still, he says, as gently as he can manage,

“Stay. Please stay,”

He doesn’t.

-

Shuuichi oversleeps the next morning after a long night tossing in bed, brief dips into sleep interrupted by the memory of Seiji’s expression, like there was a tornado inside him. He wakes to a headache and a voicemail on his phone.

He stares at the ominously blinking red light for a long moment through the protective steam of his coffee. He usually unplugs the machine while he sleeps, just out of habit. He’s so unused to getting messages it takes a while to figure out the playback mechanism.

“ _Good morning, Natori,”_ Nanase’s wry voice fills the apartment, rolled soft by the phone line, _“I hope this message finds you well. If you’re not too busy this afternoon could I borrow some of your time? I’ll be at Murayama park around one.”_

Shuuichi eyes the clock. It’d take him nearly an hour to get to the park. If he’s going to go, he’ll have to start moving.

He finds Nanase sitting on a bench just inside the park’s main entrance, a slim novel in hand, a light jacket thrown over her suit. Her grey hair is neatly restrained into a low bun, wrinkles feather her eyes, dig trenches at the edges of her mouth, betraying a lifetime of sly smiles. The sky threatens rain, the air thick and humid with it, but Nanase, lacking an umbrella, dares the rain to fall.

“Hello, Nanase-san,” Shuuichi says, sitting at the opposite end of the bench. Nanase snaps shut her book and looks at him, smiling slightly.

“Natori. It’s been a while,” she says. Her eyelid droops, slightly, and the corner of her mouth doesn’t move as fast or as far as the other. It would be almost unnoticeable, if Shuuichi didn’t know to look for it. Shuuichi smiles, almost despite himself, at the familiar greeting.

“To what do I owe the honour?” He asks, with exaggerate politeness. Nanase’s smile jumps up higher on one side, a roguish slant to her lips.

“You didn’t think you could avoid me forever, did you? Running about with Matoba-san like you are,” She speaks slowly and clearly, but the crispness has been rubbed from her voice. Shuuichi feels a momentary pang.

“Did… he tell you?” Shuuichi asks, almost shyly. Nanase regards him for a moment, as if deciphering the immature question behind his words. _Does he talk about me?_

“Not precisely, no,” Nanase says dryly, “Though he has mentioned you. I put it together myself,”

Shuuichi absorbs this, and the accompanying embarrassment, running a hand over his face to disguise his expression.

“Are you here to tell me off?” Shuuichi asks, layering a wry humour he doesn’t feel over the words. He almost wants her approval, but for what? To continue eking out every scrap of intimacy Seiji will allow him? To keep squeezing water from a stone? Nanase looks at him for a long moment, her grey eyes searching.

“No…” she says, at length. Shuuichi gets the sense it’s a conclusion she’s just come to. “I simply wanted to see if the years had changed you at all,”

Shuuichi spreads his arms, a showman’s gesture rendered meek by a self-conscious shrug of his shoulders. “And?”

Nanase’s eyes twinkle. “I reserve the right to pass judgment until later,”

The doctors who treated her after the stroke had apparently claimed her recovery was nothing short of miraculous. Shuuichi could forgive their exaggeration; they obviously didn’t know Nanase personally. She was the only one who could possibly out-Matoba Seiji.

“Is this the part where I tell you my intentions are pure?” Shuuichi jokes. Nanase’s crooked smile smooths out.

“I doubt you even know what your own intentions are,” _Ouch._ “You’re probably afraid this could turn into a good thing,” _Double ouch._

Shuuichi looks away to hide his expression. He feels suddenly exhausted, just the thought of trying to deflect with another weak joke nearly brings him to tears.

“What do you want, then?” He asks, resigned. Nanase hums briefly, such a Seiji habit Shuuichi’s chest aches.

“I understand something happened last night,” Nanase says. Shuuichi thinks of the wild light in Seiji’s eyes, in how he’d startled from his touch. _I didn’t ask for this_. “Matoba-san was… frazzled when he returned,”

Shuuichi stares resolutely ahead. The clouds reflect mirror-perfect in a large puddle, stagnant over a blocked drain.

“Matoba-san isn’t a coward,” she continues. Shuuichi almost laughs at how absurdly unexpected and obvious the statement is. “But, as you may have realized, but he doesn’t always know what’s good for him,”

Shuuichi tries to look like a person who this isn’t true for. And where are they supposed to look for role models? Show him someone who can see spirits who’s happy. Show him a well-adjusted exorcist. For that matter, a well-adjusted idol.

Nanase slips her book into a pocket of her jacket and stands, a cue that their conversation is ending—or over already. A man—wearing the recognizably bland yukata of Matoba servants—begins to approach.

“Do you think I’m good for him?” He asks, cautiously, quickly. Nanase leans on a cane. She doesn’t look frail—Nanase never has—instead she reminds Shuuichi of a grand old oak tree, lilting slightly, but still steady.

She looks down at him, lips cocked in a crooked smile. “I think you’ll try to be,”

It begins to rain. The servant opens an umbrella over Nanase’s head.

-

Shuuichi fumbles Kiko through the door, as she limps on a bandaged ankle. The apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of the window and warm overhead lights.

“You don’t have to stay,” Kiko grumbles as they move further in. Shuuichi’s knee bangs against something in the dark and he tries to hide his flinch.

“It’s okay,” Shuuichi murmurs, tightening his hold around her waist incrementally, “Let me take care of you,”

Kiko’s gaze flares hot and she spins in his hold, pressing their chests flush. Her body is enticingly soft and warm against his. He keeps his gaze on her eyes, glinting in the dark.

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” Kiko breathes between them.

“I know, I know. But I’d like to, if you want that too,”

A smile creeps, slow, across Kiko’s face. “Does that line usually work?”

Shuuichi smiles, softer, “It’s not a line,”

Kiko’s expression dims slightly, her eyes search his, some internal battle coming through in the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Shuuichi traces a finger along her temple and waits her out.

“Help me with my shoes,” Kiko says, abruptly. A short laugh catches at the back of Shuuichi’s throat. They fumble their way towards the bedroom.

“Cut!” The director calls out. Shuuichi delicately extricates himself from Kiko, who stretches her arms up and swings them down, taking two deep breaths. “That’s a wrap!”

Shuuichi rolls his neck. “That was good,”

“Oh?” Kiko smirks. “That do it for you?”

Shuuichi laughs, “Always,”

They’re ahead of schedule. The plot of their romance—Kiko a prickly career-woman, Shuuichi a reformed philanderer—is so familiar and easy they could probably act it in their sleep. It doesn’t mean it isn’t fun, though.

“Um, Natori-san?” A nervous PA approaches, clutching a clipboard in a white-knuckled grip. “There’s someone here to see you,”

Shuuichi looks to the PA in confusion, then follows his vague gesture towards the back of the studio… Where Seiji is lurking, leaned casually up against the back wall. He’s wearing a black suit, no tie, and a wearied, bored expression. Shuuichi looks away immediately to hide his smile.

Kiko looks at him with an unnerving blend of delight and curiousity, “Ah- _ha_ ,” she says and clicks her tongue. Shuuichi turns away from her so she won’t see his blush. Pretty soon he won’t have anywhere safe to look.

The assistant director comes over to chat about the shoot schedule for the next day, thumbing through a much-tagged script.

“I’m sorry,” Kiko interrupts sweetly, “There’s someone here to see Natori,”

“Oh!” The AD startles, looks at Shuuichi in something almost like amazement. “Well, we’re done for the day, so you can head out. You know your call time tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Shuuichi confirms, self-consciously, “Thank you,”

Kiko blows him a kiss goodbye.

Shuuichi trots over to Seiji, equal parts pleased to see him and horrified that he’s on set. Seiji watches him approach with the smallest of smiles.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” Shuuichi asks as he steps into Seiji’s space. It’s been about a week since Seiji fled his apartment. Shuuichi wonders, but doesn’t dare ask, if Nanase spoke to him.

Seiji stares mutely, his gaze drawing up his body, his head tipping back ever so slightly to look Shuuichi in the eye.

“Have you gotten taller?” Seiji murmurs. His arms are folded over his chest, but he looks relaxed, not defensive. Shuuichi’s ribs are tight around his thrumming heart.

“Oh, I’ve got lifts in my shoes,” Shuuichi shifts his weight slightly. The lifts make him nearly three inches taller, to better match Kiko’s height in heels. Seiji blinks up at him silently.

“Did you have business in the city?” Shuuichi asks. What he really wants to know is if Seiji is okay, if he’s been sleeping. If he’s forgiven for asking for too much.

He still looks tired, skin drawn tight across his bones, a bag under his eye that Shuuichi’s thumb could settle into. But the wildness is gone from his expression, the tense urgency of his body dissolved. Shuuichi has begun to fantasize about a well-rested, well-fed Seiji. How his skin could glow not nearly translucent, but pink with a healthy warmth.

“No,” Seiji answers plainly, still staring unnervingly at him, “I thought we could get dinner,”

“Sounds good,” Shuuichi steps in even closer, forcing Seiji to tilt his chin up a little further, and drops his voice lower, “Should I keep the lifts on?”

He’s rewarded by a faint blush in Seiji’s face and a rasp in his voice when he says, “If you don’t mind,”

Shuuichi grins, “Alright, give me five to change,”

Seiji takes him back to the ramen bar, which must mean Shuuichi hasn’t fucked things up too badly. Over steaming bowls of noodles, Shuuichi blurts out, through his own burning embarrassment, “You make me happy,”

Seiji makes a face that isn’t quite a smile but isn’t the absence of it either. Dryly, he says, “Well. There’s no accounting for taste,”

Back at his apartment, Seiji backs up against the front door, pulling Shuuichi in close so he boxes him in with his artificial height. Seiji looks up at him, a spark of heat in his eye, his lips parted around a flicker of his tongue.

“I’m beginning to think you only care about one thing,” Shuuichi says and Seiji _laughs_. It’s bright and cold, just as Shuuichi remembers, the lines of his face sharpening around a wide grin.

Shuuichi’s chest fills up, hot and tight, a feeling too painful to be happiness. He kisses Seiji before he can say something stupid, like propose marriage.

Seiji stays the night, the whole night, so that when Shuuichi’s alarm goes off in the early dawn hours, he opens his eyes to the sight of a sleep-rumpled Seiji in one of his own shirts.

They eat a cold breakfast together and when Seiji heads to shower he looks at Shuuichi over one shoulder and demands, “Aren’t you coming?”

Seiji, predictably, is fussy and testy in the shower, focused solely on the task of getting clean. Shuuichi, on the other hand, goes out of his mind watching Seiji wash his hair and Seiji is startled, then amused, and then he’s pressing Shuuichi up against the wall, their bodies warm and slick with water.

Shuuichi is late for his call time, but that’s alright. They’re ahead of schedule.

-

Later that same week Seiji brings over sushi, which they eat at the coffee table under the blue light of the TV. They’ve never spent time together twice in a week before, and Shuuichi is hesitant to believe it isn’t a trick.

Whatever was going on with Seiji the week before, whatever put that hard distance in his eyes, he seems to be over it, now. Or, at least, determined to act like he is.

They make-out lazily for a while, before Seiji becomes distracted by the movie and then, not long after, falls asleep, head cushioned on Shuuichi’s chest.

Shuuichi gets that curious feeling again, like he might sing or cry or burst into flames. He doesn’t do any of that, though, he just combs through Seiji’s hair and doesn’t worry about what his expression might give away, safe from Seiji’s electric gaze.

And so, the last weeks of June slip into July, and Seiji is there. There when a torrential rainfall forces them under the awning of a closed restaurant, their damp hair blending on their cheeks as they kiss in their makeshift shelter. There after Shuuichi wraps his shoot and presents his elaborate farewell bouquet to Seiji, just to watch the annoyed crumple of his expression. There to laugh at him when Shuuichi can finally cut his hair and in his over-eagerness gets it chopped far too short. There, in his bed, dark eyes focused and hungry.

_You’re probably afraid this could turn into a good thing_. Is it fear that speeds his pulse, that compresses his ribs? Where does fear end and happiness start? Shuuichi is beginning to suspect the divide is in the unconquerable fire in his chest, the urge to smile too powerful to overcome.

But he’s afraid to look straight at the feeling, afraid to voice it, sure that if he were to, it would turn to a pillar of salt.

-

It’s dark, the rich black before the barest traces of dawn. They’re in Shuuichi’s bed, the sheets snarled into a knot on the floor, the summer heat settling damp on their bare skin.

Seiji rests his head on Shuuichi’s right thigh, eyes level with the still-red scar on his opposite leg. His touch is gentle, curious, against the raised scar tissue. Shuuichi can feel sleep creeping up on him, but Seiji’s attention keeps him awake.

“Do you regret your choices?” Seiji asks, and Shuuichi can tell he means _Do you regret choosing me?_

“No,” Shuuichi answers simply, instead of _I’ll always choose you._

“None of them?” Seiji presses. Shuuichi closes his eyes and touches his hand to the scar twisting around Seiji’s eye. It’s easier to be honest when he can’t see the endless velvet of his gaze.

“No. But if I could, I would’ve been kinder to you,”

He can feel, in the bend of the scar tissue, in the touch of Seiji’s mouth, his smile.

-

They’re sprawled out on Shuuichi’s frankly uncomfortable couch, Seiji reading while Shuuichi watches the news, volume down low. They got caught in a summer shower leaving dinner; Seiji’s shirt is hanging in the bathroom to dry, a thin excuse to indulge in each other’s company a little longer.

The clouds have since moved on, letting through faint dots of starlight. Neither of them mentions it.

They’re slowly working through a bottle of wine Shuuichi dug out from the back of a cupboard. Shuuichi’s face is warm, whether from the wine or Seiji’s feet casually propped up in his lap, hard to say.

The phone rings, shattering the quiet and making Shuuichi jump. Seiji doesn’t look up from his book but slips his feet off his lap. It’s late enough that all that remains of the summer sun is the barest traces of pink on the horizon. Shuuichi gets up to check the number flashing on the screen and feels his stomach drop.

“Natsume?” He says, into the phone.

“Natori! I’m sorry to call so late,” Natsume’s voice bursts down the phone line, “The Dogs Circle wanted to throw me a birthday party but—uh, things are getting out of hand. I hate to ask, but could you come over?”

“Oh, um—" Shuuichi stutters, eyes flying to Seiji reclined on the couch. Natsume, still unnervingly tuned in to rejection, even after all this time, cuts him off,

“Is now a bad time? I’m sorry I know it’s—"

“No, no it’s fine just—" Shuuichi feels a blush crawl up his neck, “Matoba’s here right now,”

Seiji looks up sharply at his name, eye narrowed in suspicion. Shuuichi looks away.

“Oh!” Natsume exclaims, then falls silent for a long moment. In the background, Natori can hear bustle and shouts—the youkai, probably. “Well. He can come too,”

“What?” Shuuichi asks, dumbly.

“It’s—it’s a party after all. Though I may need help corralling the youkai, I’d still like you to be here. And you can—you can bring Matoba-san too,”

Shuuichi stares at the wall, stunned into silence.

“Well. I’ll be there soon to help out,” he says, “Will you be okay until then?”

“Yes! They mean well, of course, they’re just excitable. We’re in the forest, near the Fujiwara’s,” Natsume says all in a rush, “Thank you so much!”

Shuuichi hangs up and turns slowly to Seiji, staring up at him from the couch, book forgotten.

“That was... Natsume,” Shuuichi says, doing his best to hold Seiji’s gaze, “Sounds like the local youkai are getting pretty rowdy for his birthday,”

“Oh?”

“He’d like us to come,”

Seiji’s smile is indecipherable. “Well then, I’ll call for a car,”

The car ride is silent, Shuuichi stares out at the evening gloom, trying not to let his nerves show. Seiji sits primly, one leg over the other, his foot tapping silently mid-air. He’s wearing one of Shuuichi’s shirts, a deep green button-up much nicer than his usual clothes, and ratty track pants. He looks good in green. Shuuichi tries not to become obsessed.

Natsume’s actual birthday was more than a week ago, not that youkai probably put much stock in the Gregorian calendar. Or in birthdays, for that matter. Shuuichi called to wish Natsume well and they rain-checked that birthday drink—Shuuichi’s schedule was suddenly rather full of time spent sprawled out on the couch with Seiji.

The drive is shorter than Shuuichi expected, accustomed as he is to the train. Seiji has the driver pull over by the one street away from the Fujiwaras and they head into the trees, wading through the beams from the headlights, splashed yellow against the undergrowth.

“You’ll... be nice, right?” Shuuichi asks, cautiously. Seiji tosses his hair back and fixes him with a meaningless smile,

“When am I not?” He returns, pleasantly. Shuuichi scowls.

“I’m being serious,”

Seiji cocks his head, “And I’m not?”

Finding the party takes next to no effort; they only have to follow the sound of raucous laughter, the glint of light through the trees. Shuuichi picks up his stride, so he’ll arrive first. The Dog’s Circle might not be particularly fond of him, but they’ve never been outright hostile to him.

The trees open up to a small clearing, absolutely packed with youkai of all kinds, big and small, humanoid and distinctly animal, all engaged in drinking, laughing, and a few games of questionable origins. Shuuichi stalls out on the sidelines, taken aback at the sheer number of bodies. He knew Natsume had friends among the youkai but just... hadn’t realized how many.

“Natori!” He turns to Natsume, elbowing his way through the crowd. He’s wearing an elaborate kimono, open over a t-shirt and shorts, his hair ruffled off his face. He looks a little frazzled, but he’s smiling.

“Natsume. Happy birthday, again,” Shuuichi embraces him briefly. The kimono reeks of sake.

Natsume makes a face as he pulls back. “Sorry to ask this of you,”

“It’s no problem,” Seiji says, coming to stand at Shuuichi’s side, “Natsume-kun,”

Natsume eyes Seiji warily, who smiles blandly in return. Shuuichi opens his mouth to say something desperately inane but then a youkai throws herself across Natsume’s shoulders.

“Natsume,” Hinoe whines leaning heavily on him, “Why’d you invite so many men? Couldn’t you bring some women?”

“If you’d like I could call Nanase,” Seiji says. She peers at him, blinking slowly as if she can’t decide if he’s joking. Beside him, Shuuichi sweats.

“No thanks,” is her eventual reply, “You know what they say, two’s a crowd when it comes to exorcists,”

“Thanks for coming,” Natsume says, elbowing Hinoe off. The youkai flounces away, unbothered.

“Happy to be here,” Shuuichi reassures him. “Anything I can do?”

The earlier rain cleared the muggy heat and it’s the perfect evening to be outside; the air clear and warm, the sky bright with stars, the night rich with possibilities the way only summer can be.

Shuuichi helps Natsume shuttle dirty dishes around and fish a tipsy spirit no bigger than his hand from a pond. He replaces Misuzu’s bottle of sake with water while Natsume distracts him, and then tries to usher some of the unrulier youkai further into the forest. It turns out nothing puts a damper on a youkai party quite like Matoba Seiji, and the rowdiest of the spirits slink away into the trees at the sight of him. Natsume looks like he can’t quite decide if he should be grateful or annoyed.

The worst of the revelers dealt with, they settle under a tree and are immediately handed cups from sake from a sweet-faced youkai. Natsume chats with them briefly, and Shuuichi’s gaze sweeps the gathering. He thinks, maybe, Natsume might’ve figured it out, after all, how to live a life that straddles both worlds.

“Not exactly how I pictured this drink,” Shuuichi jokes, toasting Natsume, who returns the gesture readily.

“Things always seem to go this way, don’t they?” He says, but he’s smiling as he sips his drink. He looks out at the party with a familiar exasperated fondness that warms Shuuichi’s chest better than the sake ever could.

“Whose kimono is that, by the way?” Shuuichi asks. Natsume looks down at himself as if surprised, running a hand down the embroidered fabric.

“Hinoe’s? Maybe?” He pulls a face, “It smells awful, to be honest,”

Shuuichi laughs and Natsume sheepishly joins in, hiding his grin behind his cup. For a long moment they’re quiet, drinking peaceably while the noise and energy of the party washes over them. There’s a brightness in Shuuichi’s chest from the celebration; a pleasant mix of relief and joy that Natsume has such friends, even if they’re spirits.

“Can I ask you something?” Natsume says. Shuuichi gestures for him to continue. “I haven’t seen your lizard mark at all tonight, and I didn’t see it last time we hung out, either. Is it…?”

“It’s gone, Seiji banished it,” Shuuichi says, trying to keep his voice light. Natsume’s expression is complicated, somewhere between sorrow and relief, filled with such crystal-clear understanding that Shuuichi’s teeth ache.

“Oh, Natori,” he says, kindly. Shuuichi has to look away. After a polite silence, Natsume adds, “I didn’t know that was possible,”

“I don’t think Seiji did, either,” Shuuichi admits, “I think he saw an opportunity and took it,”

He’s thought a lot about it since. It couldn’t have been such a small, simple thing as a talisman alone. Was it the blood? Was it the rope of their powers blended together, flowing through his body? Was it something more vague—like trust, or the passage of time?

“You know… you say Matoba-san’s name differently than anyone else’s,” Natsume says, slowly, as though he’s thinking aloud.

“Yeah?” Shuuichi hedges warily. Natsume nods, his eyes piercingly bright.

“Yeah. You say it like... like it means something else. You always have.”

Shuuichi rubs a hand across his mouth to hide his expression, looking away from those large golden eyes.

“If you’re happy that’s good,” Natsume says, abruptly, “You should be happy,”

He says it like he knows it’s not that easy. Like he’s looked into the gulf between understanding and believing and seen what a distance it is. He also says it like he can’t quite believe Seiji is the source of his happiness. Shuuichi has always appreciated Natsume’s candor.

“Thank you, Natsume,” he says, face hot, “That means a lot to me,”

Shuuichi finds Seiji a little while later, standing at the edge of the party. He’s holding a fistful of unlit sparklers like he’s never seen them before in his life, and not enthused by the introduction. Shuuichi barely manages to smother a laugh.

“Fireworks?” He says, standing close enough he could cover Seiji’s hand with his own. Seiji smiles,

“I’ve been told they’re festive,” he says, dryly.

“Not the way you’re holding them,” Shuuichi says, and slips the fireworks from Seiji’s death-grip. He crouches and sets aside all but two then fishes a lighter from his pocket.

“You’re prepared,” Seiji observes, archly, crouching opposite him.

“I had a suspicion,” Shuuichi says, “What’s summer without fireworks?”

Seiji watches Shuuichi light the first sparkler, his lips cocked in a mild, crooked smile. When Shuuichi holds the lit sparkler towards him, however, Seiji startles.

“You want me to—?” Seiji looks at Shuuichi in something almost like confusion, his hands firmly planted on his knees.

“C’mon, don’t try to tell me you’ve never lit fireworks,” Shuuichi teases. Seiji’s mouth flattens out.

“I haven’t.”

“Really? You’re how old, again?”

“You know exactly my age,”

“And _never_?”

Seiji glares at him as Shuuichi, unfettered, grins at Seiji’s obvious discomfort.

“You just hold it like this,” Shuuichi gestures with the sparkler, hanging from his fingers. Seiji looks at him dubiously. “It’s fun,”

“ _Is_ it,” Seiji drawls. But he takes the sparkler, holds it delicately between two fingers, watching the colourful sparks passively. Shuuichi watches the play of light across his face, catching in the shadows of the eyepatch, alighting on the sharp line of his jaw.

Seiji’s expression softens, slightly, after a moment. His dark eye watches the lights attentively as his frown smooths out. Some unnameable emotion shimmers just beneath his expression, like a mirage.

He looks at Seiji and lets himself think it: _I love you. I love you!_ An almost joyful feeling bubbles up inside him, clogging his throat, stretching his mouth into a grin. Seiji stares back at him, face slackened into an unreadable expression.

The night feels infinite, bright with possibility, as Shuuichi closes the distance between them to press his smile to Seiji’s forehead, his cheek, at last his mouth. Seiji sighs, softly, as they part and Shuuichi feels like he holds the entire world in his hands.

Shuuichi fumbles with the lock to his door while Seiji slumps against the wall. The artificial brightness of the hall gives way to the deep, velvety dark of his apartment and Seiji barely muffles a yawn behind one hand. When he drops his hand Shuuichi replaces it with his mouth, kissing Seiji with a sloppy laziness.

“’m gonna shower,” he murmurs when they break apart. Seiji rubs at his face, fingers slipping under the eyepatch.

“I’ll join you,” he says. Shuuichi leads the way to the bathroom, where he strips down and then pulls of Seiji’s clothes. He’s still buzzing, slightly, from the alcohol and the night air, the faint smell of sulphur on their skin. Seiji smiles at Shuuichi idly as he scoops his hair up into a bun, almost like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

They shower briskly and quietly, sweat and smoke sluice off their skin and down the drain. There’s a sleepy pull at Seiji’s eyes, but the corner of his mouth hikes up sharply as he leans in to kiss Shuuichi, his skin cool under the hot water.

Shuuichi lays on the bed while Seiji finishes up in the bathroom. The last of the alcohol drains through him, leaving him cloudy headed. Outside, there’s a faint line of blue on the horizon, a distant promise of dawn. They’ve officially been up all night, but Shuuichi feels wide-awake.

Seiji returns from the shower, his hair mostly dry and loose down his back, wearing only Shuuichi’s boxers. He stands at the edge of the bed, looking at Shuuichi the same way he did in the ambulance—hard eyes, soft mouth.

Shuuichi opens his mouth to speak and Seiji places his hand over his chest. Shuuichi’s heart is thundering so hard Seiji is sure to feel it. From the faint crinkle to his eyes, he must.

Seiji climbs on top of him, his damp skin sticking to Shuuichi’s naked body, and kisses him. He licks into him immediately, hands cradling his jaw just so. The kiss is filthy, but lazy, and stirs heat to life in Shuuichi’s navel.

Seiji pulls back, his lips shiny with spit, a high blush in his cheeks. His hair falls around his face, closing them off into a little world of their own. The jagged edges of scar tissue around his eye stand out white even against the paleness of his skin, against the deep dark of his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Shuuichi says, hoarsely. Seiji looks startled and then he looks away. Shuuichi’s body burns hot, his heart a miniature sun.

Seiji slides down Shuuichi’s chest, dragging his hands along his sides, tracing the contours of his bones where they press up against muscle. He kisses Shuuichi’s neck, his collarbone, sucks a faint bruise into the meat of his chest.

He drags his mouth down Shuuichi’s stomach, kisses his hardening cock perfunctorily, then licks at the seam of his thigh, a hungry expression darkening his eyes. Shuuichi takes a steadying breath.

Seiji sucks gently at Shuuichi’s balls and his stomach muscles tense, pleasure making his toes curl. Seiji glides his hands along his thighs then shoves them apart and licks down the skin behind his balls. Shuuichi tenses up, a shudder racing through him. There’s a smile crinkling Seiji’s eyes, a sly look in his expression, as he slides his hands up high on Shuuichi’s thighs, parts the cheeks of his ass and licks a hot stripe over his hole.

Shuuichi’s cock leaps to attention and he squirms away from Seiji’s mouth, face burning. Seiji lifts his head and gives him a flat stare.

“ _Now_ you’re embarrassed?” He says, exasperated.

“ _Hng_ ,” Shuuichi replies, intelligently. Seiji drops back between his legs.

Seiji lathes at his hole, his tongue unbearably hot and wet on the sensitive skin. Shuuichi’s whole body flares electric, his nerves lighting up as he squirms under Seiji’s ministrations, white-hot arousal pooling heavily between his legs.

It feels embarrassingly filthy and agonizingly intimate. To be fair, Shuuichi ate Seiji out nearly a year ago and hadn’t put much thought into it, consumed as he was by greedy desire, his lifelong obsession with the shape of Seiji’s mouth pouring out in unexpected ways. But now, with Seiji’s hands pressed to his thighs, his eyes closed, a faint divot between his brows as he concentrates on _licking Shuuichi’s asshole_ , Shuuichi feels exposed, vulnerable, and really, stupidly, turned on.

Seiji presses his tongue inside Shuuichi and that wet, unfamiliar pressure sends shockwaves through his body. Shuuichi makes what is, to date, the most embarrassing sound of his life and jerks violently out of Seiji’s grasp.

He gasps for air, shivering on the bed, and tries to organize his mind around words.

Seiji sits up, looking faintly amused. “All right, you coward,” he says. Before Shuuichi can say anything—tell Seiji how good and simultaneously awful it felt, ask if this is what Seiji feels when they fuck, beg for him to continue—Seiji bends to take Shuuichi’s cock in his mouth, and Shuuichi is lost.

-

Shuuichi braces his hands on the counter and stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is a little fucked up—too short and sloppily pushed off his face, he could probably stand to wash it. There’s a purple bite mark at the base of his throat, another on the faint swell of his chest, thin scratches at his hip that’ve begun to bloom into bruises of their own. His low-slung sleep pants hide it, but he knows there’s several distinct bruises on his thighs in the shape of Seiji’s fingertips.

Seiji spent the day at his, where the air conditioner worked overtime trying to combat the heat, spitting pitiful puffs of cold air into the apartment. It was too hot to do anything more than lay sleepily on the couch, reading and eating sweets from the freezer.

In the mirror, Shuuichi’s eyes are crinkled, faintly, at the corners with a hidden smile. He looks tired. He looks happy.

Seiji is in his head, saying _Shuuichi_ like it means something else.

Shuuichi stands in the doorway to the bedroom. Seiji is sprawled out on the bed, wearing just a pair of Shuuichi’s boxers, worn out from the heat. A familiar feeling bubbles up in his chest, a hunger, a brightness to mirror the sun, a tightness at the base of his throat like he could cry or laugh.

Shuuichi opens his mouth and what comes out is, “Am I forgiven?”

Seiji turns to look at him, blinking slowly. His expression is unreadable in the dark. Shuuichi’s heart hammers so loud he’s almost convinced the other man can hear it.

“You know,” he says, thoughtfully, “Contrite was not the response I expected you to have,”

“What did you think I would say?” Shuuichi asks. Seiji’s stare turns inwards, calculating. “You thought I’d deny it,”

Seiji is quiet a moment too long. Then he says, “I thought you would say it back,”

Shuuichi is so bewildered he can’t help the, “ _Huh?_ ” that falls from his mouth.

Seiji sits up, folding his legs and straightening his back primly. A fond warmth unfurls in Shuuichi’s chest, at war with the nervous confusion coiling in his gut. Seiji looks at him, head tipped slightly, as if considering his words precisely.

“I thought that you... I thought that I had behaved unforgivably,” Seiji says, careful and cold.

Shuuichi moves towards the bed, stands over Seiji and imagines touching his beautiful face. Seiji looks up at him, his feelings tidily tucked away behind a bland expression. He tries to tell the truth.

“Not for me. Maybe...” Shuuichi swallows dryly, “I—I want you badly enough I can forgive anything,”

Seiji looks mildly horrified, which on him is just another shade of annoyed. “Don’t say that,”

“It’s true,” Shuuichi says hoarsely, honestly. “But the inverse is that I’d do anything to you, if you asked,”

Seiji stares at him, his mouth hard, his eyes focused, flicking between Shuuichi’s.

“Don’t you mean for me?” He says, eventually.

“That too,” Shuuichi’s breath is thin. A corner of Seiji’s mouth hitches up, like he can’t help it, a huff of breath through his nose like the beginning of a laugh. “I do want to make it up to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying,”

Shuuichi reaches out a hand and Seiji tips his cheek into his touch, his eyes dark and endless. His skin is warm, soft, Shuuichi strokes his thumb across his cheekbone and Seiji’s eyelashes flutter.

“So, what? I can have you do whatever I want, but what do you get out of it?” Seiji asks, wryly, his brow tipping up. Shuuichi’s stomach drops low.

“You know what,” he says. Seiji frowns.

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me,”

Shuuichi can taste blood in his mouth as his heartbeat pounds at the base of his throat. His hands begin to shake, reflexively, and he withdraws his hand to hide it.

“You—I’d get to have you,” he says. Seiji tips his head, one brow rising coldly. His mouth is a hard, flat line. Shuuichi chokes out the next part; “You’d be mine.”

Seiji’s expression slowly begins to open up into curiousity, then something approaching wonder. “It’s really that simple for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Shuuichi rasps, “Yes,”

Seiji reaches out, takes Shuuichi’s shaking hands in his own. His fingers are cool, soft but for the calluses on his fingers. He stares down at their intertwined hands, expression hidden.

“What do you want?” Shuuichi asks, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. Seiji tilts his head back, his gaze sharp and cold as it focuses on his face.

“I want to hear it,”

“You know how I feel about you,” Shuuichi says, thickly. He’s almost certain Seiji has always known, ever since Shuuichi crawled under that table with him, a lifetime ago. Certainly, after Shuuichi climbed into his sick bed, his face flushed hot from his slap. He’s always belonged to Seiji and Seiji must have always _known_.

“All the same. I want to hear you say it,” Seiji says, evenly. And it is not so big a request, after all, Shuuichi feels like he’s been choking on the words his entire life. He bends in half, a caricature of a bow, leans his head against Seiji’s shoulder, so he won’t have to see his face. And it is not so hard, in the end, to be honest.

Softly, he says, “I love you,”

“Again,” Seiji says, almost immediately. Shuuichi pulls back, annoyed and embarrassed to look at Seiji, who stares back, his expression heated, a mean twist to his mouth.

Shuuichi thinks, _So that’s how it is_. He smiles and Seiji’s expression scuttles.

“I love you,” Shuuichi says, meeting the growing unease in Seiji’s eyes, “I love your hair, I love that you’re selfish. I love the—"

“Shut up,” Seiji hisses, flushing hotly. Shuuichi’s smile grows into a grin.

“—the way you say my name, I love the shape of your mouth—"

“Shut _up!”_ Seiji repeats, grabbing Shuuichi by the arms and shaking him slightly. Shuuichi laughs, delighted.

“I love—"

Seiji yanks him down and covers his mouth with his own, his teeth sinking into Shuuichi’s bottom lip. Shuuichi crawls onto the bed, settles between Seiji’s thighs, and kisses him back, grinning into the press of his lips, his teeth.

He feels delirious, giddy, his ribs expand around an impossible brightness, a laugh tumbles from his mouth into Seiji’s. Seiji breaks away, panting, looking embarrassed and annoyed. He puts Shuuichi in the mind of a wet cat. He runs his hands down Seiji’s bare sides, grinds down into the v of his thighs.

“I love the way—" Seiji makes a furious, animal noise, and presses their mouths together. He kisses Shuuichi like he wants to eat him alive. Shuuichi is more than happy to oblige.

Shuuichi buries one hand in Seiji’s hair and breaks away just far enough to murmur, “Remember outside the 7-Eleven, when you told me to _pull_? I loved that,”

He clenches his fist in the silky strands and pulls, hard, before Seiji can tell him off. Seiji’s head snaps back, his lips parting around a hot gasp, and Shuuichi licks over his pulse.

“I love how you boss me around,” Shuuichi says, low into Seiji’s ear. Seiji’s fingers scramble for a hold on Shuuichi’s bare shoulders.

“You never listen,” he gasps, as Shuuichi winds his hair around his wrist.

“That’s part of the fun,” Shuuichi says, sliding his free hand down to grip Seiji’s waist and rolls them clumsily so Seiji sprawls on top of him, legs spread.

Shuuichi releases his hold on Seiji’s hair to shove down his boxers— _his_ boxers on _Seiji’s_ ass—delighted to see that, annoyed or not, Seiji’s cock is already flushed and half-hard. Shuuichi runs his hands over Seiji’s ass, hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers.

“I like this,” he says, his heart thrumming hot in his chest. There’s something so irresistible about Seiji in Shuuichi’s clothes—whether it’s an old shirt or a sweater or his boxers—something about the effortless arrogance of the way Seiji takes his things as his own. Something about the implicit claim his clothes make on Seiji’s body.

He slips the boxers down and Seiji obligingly sits up on his knees, lifting one leg then the other to shimmy out of them. He looks down at Shuuichi, amused. “I know. You’re very obvious,”

Before Shuuichi can speak Seiji puts a hand to the back of his neck and hauls him up into a bruising kiss. Seiji licks into him greedily, his fingers scratching gently the soft skin of his neck, his lips an urgent pressure against him. Seiji nibbles on his lip, sucks on his tongue until Shuuichi outright moans.

Seiji breaks away, licking his lips, his pupils blown so large his eyes look black. Shuuichi stares at him for a bewildered moment, his head empty but for the white-hot buzz of arousal in his veins.

“I love you,” he says, half a gasp.

“Stop saying that,” Seiji snaps, flushed so prettily pink.

“But it’s true,” Shuuichi gasps, as Seiji grinds down onto him, “And I love making you blush,”

“You’re unbearable,” Seiji says, but his voice comes out thin as Shuuichi wraps his hand around his cock. He strokes him steadily, revelling in the firmness of him, the heat of Seiji’s skin, the bead of precum dripping slowly down to Shuuichi’s stomach.

“So pretty,” Shuuichi coos, grinning. Seiji blushes deeper, dropping his head so his hair falls in a silky curtain over his shoulders, and works Shuuichi’s cock out of his pants, rasps a faint almost-laugh when he finds him already hard and leaking. Shuuichi adjusts his grip, presses their cocks flush and wraps his fist around the both of them, pulling an embarrassing noise from his own chest. Seiji gasps, hands falling down to bracket Shuuichi’s head, his hips hitching eagerly.

“There’s—grab the lube from the—” Shuuichi says, his tongue thick in his mouth. Seiji goes into a controlled fall to the side, Shuuichi releasing his cock momentarily, and fishes the bottle out of the side table.

He rights himself and uncaps the bottle with a loud _snap_ , upends cold lube over their cocks. They both hiss in unison, and Shuuichi gets a hot thrill from it. He wraps his hand around their lengths and strokes firm and fast.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, stupidly, eyes caught on the sight of them pressed together, the delicious feeling of Seiji hot and hard against him, the sharp scrape of his nails on Shuuichi’s chest. His hand isn’t large enough to encircle the both of them but the press of Seiji’s cock against his own, the way Shuuichi can squeeze them tight—

“ _Nngh_ ,” Seiji grunts, even stupider. Shuuichi drags his eyes up to his face, flushed pink, his dark eyes pinned on their cocks in Shuuichi’s hand, his kiss-bitten lips parted for his breath. Heat pools, heavy and insistent, at the base of his spine.

Oh, Shuuichi is not going to last like this _at all_.

He adjusts his grip to release his own dick but continues to stroke Seiji, slick with an absurd amount of lube. Seiji makes a short, annoyed noise but then Shuuichi flicks his slit with his thumbnail and Seiji makes an altogether different noise and fucks into Shuuichi’s fist.

“How many times d’you think you can come?” Shuuichi asks, falsely casual. Seiji’s head snaps up and he stares at him with a heady mix of apprehension and hunger. “Two?”

Seiji huffs and counters, grumpily, “Three,”

Shuuichi smiles and squeezes his cock. “Is that a bet?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Seiji hisses, his dark eyes gleaming, “Make me come, Shuuichi,”

The words are like a blow to Shuuichi’s chest, and for a moment he’s winded. Then he sits up, strokes Seiji faster, harder, and seals their lips together. He grips a handful of Seiji’s hair just above his neck and yanks sharply, just as he shoves his tongue past his lips. He feels more than hears Seiji moan, his blood roaring in his ears, as Seiji’s cock throbs in his grip, his release hot against Shuuichi’s skin.

Shuuichi combs his hand through Seiji’s hair, small tangles catching on his fingers, as he strokes him through it. Seiji breaks the kiss to gasp for air, eyes blown dark, cheeks so perfectly pink. Shuuichi lays back and fishes for the discarded lube, Seiji watches him, his gaze hot on his bare skin.

Before Seiji’s breathing has a chance to even out, Shuuichi slicks his one hand, the other holding Seiji steady at the hip. He eases a finger slowly into him, just barely breaching the ring of muscle, and Seiji shivers, his breath rasping hard.

“Look at you,” Shuuichi coos and Seiji shudders violently, clenching around his finger, blushed pink all down his chest. Gently, he eases Seiji open on one, then two fingers, stretching out his hot, resistant body, until he manages to glance off his prostate.

Seiji plants his hands on Shuuichi’s shoulders, nails digging in as he clenches and shudders, flinching from Shuuichi’s touch even as he leans into it. An unbearable heat swells inside Shuuichi at the sight, at the soft sounds Seiji makes, a bottomless desire for _more_.

Shuuichi grips Seiji’s half-hard cock with his other hand, stroking him firmly and Seiji keens, his whole body flinching, his head dropping forward, his hair falling between them. A bolt of desire, so intense it’s nearly painful, lances through him.

“Oh, love, too much?” Shuuichi asks, soothingly, gentling his grip around Seiji’s cock. Seiji’s whole body is wracked by shivers. “I can stop if it hurts,”

“ _Ngh—_ you like this because it hurts me,” Seiji gasps out. Shuuichi stills. Seiji straightens, lifting one hand from Shuuichi’s shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming. “And it’s why I like it too, it’s—it’s a little like—”

The slap comes so fast Shuuichi doesn’t see it. But _oh_ , does he feel it. A sharp pain in his cheek, a rush of blood, an addictive heat curling his toes, winding his navel tight. He makes a high, desperate keen in the back of his throat.

For so long being with Seiji felt like trying to shove two mismatched puzzle pieces together. But lately, it’s like Shuuichi has turned the pieces to discover they fit perfectly, after all. And now Shuuichi has the bizarre, powerful thought that they were made for each other.

From one angle, they could only hurt each other. From another, the hurt was a conversation, a give as well as a take. And Seiji is looking at him in an unfamiliar way, in a way Shuuichi wants to be looked at for the rest of his life.

And Shuuichi thinks, _Oh, you love me too_.

“Seiji,” he gasps, senselessly. Seiji grins, all teeth, predatory.

“Shuuichi,” he says.

He redoubles his efforts, stroking Seiji’s cock so he whines, fucking his fingers into him, hitting the sweet spot inside him again and again, as Seiji whimpers and shudders, clenching his hands into fists on Shuuichi’s chest as he rides it out. Shuuichi burns up, a liquid heat pooling insistently in his navel.

“Baby, you look so good,” He murmurs, mindlessly, “So pretty,”

Seiji comes hard, his body closing around Shuuichi’s fingers like a bear trap, tremors wracking his thin frame as he bucks into Shuuichi’s hand, semen streaking across his stomach. Shuuichi strokes him steadily through it as Seiji whines, softly, curling forward.

Gently, Shuuichi eases his fingers free and then flips them, more carefully this time, so Seiji’s head lands on the pillow, Shuuichi balanced on top of him. He takes care to shift all his long black hair up and out from under him into a tangled pile.

Seiji blinks up at him with glassy eyes, flushed all down his throat, his hair a mess, strands sticking to the sweat on his brow. He’s still shivering, intermittently, as his body calms, a faint wheeze to his breath. It’s the most beautiful sight Shuuichi has ever seen.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says, dazed. Shuuichi has to reach down and squeeze the base of his own cock to hold off what suddenly feels like an impending orgasm.

He strokes Seiji’s hair off his face, smoothing the strands back. After a little while the tremors stop and Seiji sighs.

“I’m—" Shuuichi’s voice cracks, dry, and he swallows thickly. “I’ll get some water, okay?”

Seiji just closes his eyes. Shuuichi slips out of bed and pads softly into the bathroom, where he fills a glass from the sink. He drinks it, quickly, then refills, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror.

Seiji props himself up as Shuuichi renters the bedroom and takes the offered glass. He sips at the water then hands back the half-empty glass, which Shuuichi sets on the side table before settling himself back between Seiji’s legs. Seiji’s eyes crinkle, slightly, with a hidden smile.

Shuuichi runs a hand along Seiji’s jaw, into the soft hair just behind his ear, then strokes down his neck. He trails his fingers all down one arm, then back up his torso, keeping his touch light. Seiji blinks sleepily at him, humming lightly as his hand returns to his hair.

After a while, Shuuichi can’t help the way his touch gravitates to Seiji’s nipples, circling the hard nubs, how his hand rubs insistently at Seiji’s hip, slips down to the inside of his thigh. Seiji takes a shaky breath and cants his hips up, so Shuuichi’s hand falls onto his cock. He runs his fingers lightly over his length, rakes his nails delicately up the underside.

His own cock throbs impatiently, painfully. Shuuichi experiences a bizarre combination of awe and jealousy that Seiji can come in such quick succession. Is there some kind of training regime he could undergo?

“Thanks,” Shuuichi breathes. Seiji squirms under his touch. “For letting me do this,”

Seiji glares up at him, but he’s still flushed pink so Shuuichi finds it hard to take him seriously. “I won’t if you talk like that,”

Shuuichi’s heartbeat is thick in his throat. “Can I try for three?”

“You don’t—" Seiji huffs a breath as Shuuichi flicks his nipple, “—need to ask for my permission,”

“I literally do, Seiji,” Shuuichi replies, a little exasperated, a little fond. Seiji very nearly rolls his eyes.

“You already have it, idiot,” he rasps, shoving his fringe off his sweaty forehead, “Whatever you want. Indefinitely.”

Shuuichi stares at him, the breath shocked from his lungs. “ _Seiji_ ,”

“Shut up or I’ll rescind it,” Seiji snaps. Shuuichi experiences a fierce rush of blood, straight to his dick, as his heart lurches with an overpowering fondness. He kisses Seiji quickly, a hard press of their lips, and then crawls down between his legs and sucks Seiji’s cock into his mouth greedily.

Seiji makes an obscene sound and bucks beneath him, pushing into him and pulling away all at once. Shuuichi plants his hands on Seiji’s bony hips and flattens him to the bed.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Seiji whines as his cock fattens in Shuuichi’s mouth. Shuuichi moans around him and Seiji jolts. “Shuuichi, you—"

Shuuichi pulls off and licks at the head of Seiji’s cock. “Tell me,” he gasps, before swallowing Seiji back down. His cock twitches in his mouth and Shuuichi sucks harder, dragging Seiji’s body to fullness. Seiji hisses, hips fighting Shuuichi’s hold.

“You—it _hurts_ , it feels—" he breaks off into a strained whine as Shuuichi moans and swallows him deeper. Language seems to flee Seiji entirely, as he bucks beneath Shuuichi’s hands he lets out a stream of not-quite words, his breath thin and fast. “You— _ah_ , no—please— _uhn_ , Sh—I-I— _fuck_! _Ah, ah_ ,”

Shuuichi grinds mindlessly into the mattress as Seiji sobs dryly, thrashing under his hands. Shuuichi’s whole body thrums hot, an unbearable tension at the base of his spine, electric sparks drifting along his skin. He might very well come before Seiji finishes.

Shuuichi slips his hands from Seiji’s hips down to his ass, gripping him firmly and lifting him towards Shuuichi’s mouth. Seiji’s shaking thighs drop open and he bucks inelegantly up into his mouth, his cock bumping the back of Shuuichi’s throat.

“ _Shuuichi—!”_ Seiji breaks off into a high keen, his hands tangling in Shuuichi’s hair and holding him close. “Oh it feels—you—you feel so good, _oh_ ,”

A long, low moan rumbles out of Shuuichi’s chest as the heat in his abdomen finally, _finally,_ unspools in a rush of pleasure. Seiji bucks into his mouth and Shuuichi chokes around his dick, his lungs screaming for air, lights popping across the backs of his eyelids. All he can smell is Seiji, all he can taste, completely surrounded by him in every way. His orgasm seems to last forever, his throat working around Seiji’s cock, breath wheezing through his nose.

“Oh, Shuuichi you—fuck you—" Seiji wheezes. Shuuichi moans thinly in reply. He releases his grip on Seiji’s ass and his cock drops from his mouth.

Shuuichi gasps for air, his vision blurred by tears, spit and precum dripping down his chin. He sits back slightly and hazily focuses on Seiji’s face, blushing and staring at him with a heart-stopping mixture of lust and astonishment.

“Don’t stop,” Seiji says, and yanks at his blonde hair. Shuuichi whines and drops back down to take the tip of his cock into his mouth. He wraps a hand around the base and strokes him steadily, licking and sucking at his head. Seiji shudders, arcing up into him, his fingers pulling painfully at his hair.

Seiji makes a fervent noise and comes. When he tastes bitterness on his tongue, Shuuichi almost cries. He works Seiji relentlessly through his orgasm, not slowing until he’s lapped up every last drop, Seiji whining desperately beneath his touch.

“Okay, you win,” Shuuichi croaks, his voice rusty from Seiji’s cock down his throat. He sits up and looks down at Seiji, sweaty and red all over, from his sharp cheekbones all the way down to his softening cock. He feels a faint throb of heat from his chest down to his navel.

“Great,” Seiji says weakly, throwing one arm across his eyes. His chest leaps with his haggard breathing, “Never touch me again,”

Shuuichi snorts and fumbles for the water on the side table, dumps half of it down his chest as he tries to drink. Seiji makes a grumpy noise as droplets splash his stomach but doesn’t move.

“Seiji?” Shuuichi asks, his head still spinning, “Will you go out with me?”

“What?” Seiji rasps, sharply. He drops his arm and blinks rapidly to focus on Shuuichi’s face. Shuuichi clears his throat and tries again.

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

Seiji makes an endearingly complicated expression. “I… suppose so,”

Shuuichi grins so wide it hurts. Seiji looks up at him, a little startled, a little amused, mostly with the sort of look that tells Shuuichi he’s being ridiculous. Shuuichi loves it. Shuuichi loves _him_.

“That’s great,” he sighs, happily, flopping forward to drop his face into the crook of Seiji’s neck, who huffs a breath that rustles his hair, one hand tracing a line up his spine.

“Shuuichi,” Seiji says, softly. He doesn’t say anything else; he doesn’t need to.

Shuuichi knows exactly what he means.

-

It ends like this:

Shuuichi shuffles through a 7-11, the fluorescent lights forcing his eyes into a squint as he scans the aisle, a blur of colourful packaging glowing in the unnatural light. He has a list in hand, but he can barely understand the notes: _gummy candy (blue bag not green), fish crackers, get pretzel sticks if there’s bear on packaging NOT lion…_

He’s so focused on getting the right snacks that it’s not until he’s standing at the cash that the fact of it hits him and he feels a ridiculous grin split his face. He looks down at the pile of snacks on the counter, then up to the cashier.

“It’s for my boyfriend,” he says, with childish glee, then immediately regrets it. If the cashier recognized him his publicist would have a shit fit. But they seem deeply steeped in teenaged apathy, and only say,

“Right on,” with the beleaguered drawl of the perpetually tired. Shuuichi pays and leaves in an embarrassed rush, his heart tripping in his chest, his neck burning.

Outside the artificial chill of the convenience store, the night air is thick with humidity, laying hot against his face. It’s a short walk to their new place, Shuuichi lets the plastic bag swing from his fingers, breathing deep the clear smell of summer air.

So many of the pieces are the same; a warm night, a bag of snacks, a surety blooming between his ribs that the world could open up nicely for him, if only he asked. His hair is shorter now, the creases around his eyes more pronounced, he walks in a different direction, to a different apartment. And there’s a warmth blooming in his chest as he returns home, that wasn’t there before.

“I’m home,” he calls out absently, toeing off his shoes by the door. While the front hall is tidy but for a sheaf of cardboard spilling from the closet, the living room is still a mess of boxes. Several are open, trailing scrolls or overflowing with books and in the middle of it all sprawls Seiji, indifferent.

Seiji is reclined on the couch, a book splayed open on his stomach. He’s wearing one of Shuuichi’s t-shirts and a pair of basketball shorts, looking soft and relaxed in the evening gloom. His hair, shorn at his shoulders, splays out against the arm of the couch, a glossy black fan.

His eye finds Shuuichi’s from across the room. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens. Shuuichi smiles, as fireworks erupt behind his ribs.

“I couldn’t remember which cracker you liked so I got both,” Shuuichi says, dropping the shopping bag on the coffee table. Seiji grunts in acknowledgement, sitting up to sort through the snacks.

Shuuichi stands over him, a silly smile bending his mouth. He cannot believe his luck.

Seiji’s retirement is all but final, only a hastily invented New Years ritual ahead to make the transition official. Seiji has taken to retirement like fish to water; all he does is read and snack and fuck Shuuichi brainless.

It was worth it, all of it, to be where they are now. He can’t wait to wake up in the morning with Seiji, to have petty arguments, to fall asleep in front of the TV, to live together, to be together.

Shuuichi will be thirty-two in the fall and he’s the happiest he’s ever been.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Seiji’s head, who stills then looks up at Shuuichi, his eyebrow cocked.

“You can _not_ get misty-eyed every time you visit 7-Eleven,” Seiji says, sternly.

“No promises,” Shuuichi grins, then tips Seiji’s face up and kisses him on the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading 💖


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